Pandemonium
by Firedance28
Summary: Sam is in the Asylum and being visited by Lucifer in his dreams. As he tries to reconsile the fallen angel with the devil tortuing him, truths are revealed and everyone invovled discoveres things about themselves, some better than others. No slash. M for triggers: Schizophrenia, blood, torture
1. Chapter 1: the Morning Star

_******A/N:**_This is a co-write between me and tumblr user Wehavebecomeanathema

_**Pandemonium**_

_**Chapter One:**** The Morning Star**_

_"The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.." ― John Milton, Paradise Lost  
_

* * *

Sam rolled onto his back, staring at the Asylum ceiling. Lucifer was actually letting him get some sleep now, which was a blessing. The dreams were... Not as much. It would have been better if they'd been nightmares, but... He jerked back to full consciousness with a start. The dreams were unsettling. But he was so tired... Slowly, his eyelids drifted closed and he fell into unconsciousness. All too quickly, he had reached his REM cycle. Dream-Sam swallowed hard. "Lucifer..."

Lucifer was sprawled leisurely over a large throne, atop a pile of twisted bodies and bones which seemed to merge together into one organic mass, making a lightly moving dais for his throne to rest on. "Ah, Sam. So good of you to join us," he said, gesturing out towards the legion of demons and fallen angels standing at attention, far out into the depths of the darkness. "Welcome to Pandemonium." Raising himself from the throne in a sinuous motion, he leaped from the top of the dais and wings unfurled from his back, appearing suddenly. They were great and shining, looking as if they had been made from ice and spun gold, the long primaries reaching out to grasp the wind. When he was no more than a few feet in front of Sam, he flapped the winds to stop his decent, sending a great gust of wind that teased Sam's hair and pushed him lightly off balance. Alighting onto the ground, his sandal clad feet touching down with immeasurable poise and grace, Lucifer looked like his name, the Morning Star, for he glowed with the light of a dying star, resplendent in his Grace.

This was actually one of the things Sam hated (loved? He really didn't like to think that) about these dreams. Back in the real world, he could just think of Lucifer as the Devil, Satan, whatever. But here... Here he was a fallen angel who'd kept his Grace. Here he could see his light and his wings. And he was... Well, the word beautiful always carried a certain tenderness, almost a fragility, that would be completely wrong to apply to Satan. But he couldn't think of another word. Sam felt himself drawn to the light, to Lucifer, even as he recoiled from the throne and the hoard of demons. "You know I wouldn't be here if I had a choice." He replied, trying to fake some bravado.

Laughing lightly, affectionately, Lucifer smiled at Sam with unabashed joy, "Oh Sam, I'll take you any way I can get you." To keep himself somewhat recognizable to his vessel, Lucifer maintained the body of Nick, but without the tension and lesions and strain that had appeared on Earth. "Now, seeing as you're here, let me play the role of host properly. Can I offer you a tour of Hell? I promise, it's quite different than people so often portray it." he implored Sam with an apparent pride of his reprobate kingdom. "I mean, it's no Heaven, but we make do with what we're given."

"I've seen enough." Sam crossed his arms over his chest protectively. After the Cage, even Hell's terrible beauty couldn't tempt him.

He looked around for a place to sit. Well, that and for somewhere to look over than the fallen angel in front of him. Of course, he couldn't look at the demons for long without feeling sick. Each demon that had once been a human soul bore the marks they'd received on the rack. Every one was covered in burns, cuts, blood... Wounds too horrible to think about. Finally, he looked back at Lucifer. "Do I actually have a choice? Or is there something else, since I'm stuck here until I wake up?" Sam immediately regretted his choice of words. He'd learned early on not to give the Morning Star any openings. That one was the equivalent of opening the gates and hanging up a welcome sign. Wincing internally, Sam braced himself for whatever the reply would be.

"Oh Sam, you always have a choice. That's what makes you so special, you know?" Lucifer practically purred. When he noticed the man's discomfort, he waved a hand and the legion disappeared in a flap of wings and a hushed snarl on the still air. "Try not to think of it as being stuck, but... otherwise occupied? At least down here you'll talk to me." Stalking around Sam with a feline grace, he cocked his head to the side and thought a moment, "I just want you to be _happy_, Sam. You said yes to me, and while I will admit I felt a bit betrayed when you jumped us into the Cage, I've never stopped wanting to make you happy. So tell me Sam, what can I do to make you feel better?" he asked, his voice dripping with sinful adoration of his vessel.

Sam's throat went dry. _Notgoodnotgoodnotgoodnot-_- who was he kidding? Well, himself, obviously. And only himself. This was the other half of why he hated (again, loved?) the dreams. Because every single time, Lucifer would give him this chance. He could take it and he would be able to _bathe_ in that glorious light. If he would just... But he hadn't yet and he really didn't plan to... At least, he hoped he didn't. Because he knew that if even a small part of him wanted it, Lucifer could, and would, use it. And it wasn't small.

Sam started walking. "Why don't you just give me the damn tour?" he snapped. He just wanted- he actually had no idea, if he was being honest with himself. And down here, it was too dangerous not to be. Lies were double edged swords.

Lucifer fell into step besides Sam, a sardonic grin stretching over his face, "Ironic choice of words there, Sammy. But I live to serve." Gesticulating into the gloom around them there came again the sound of wings, larger this time as some great beast dropped from the preternatural darkness about them. There in front of the two men stood a great black horse with feathered wings the color of pitch and the fire that burned inside the Nightmare streamed out of its empty eyes and nostrils, leaving small wisps of smoke to trail away into the air. "Seeing as you have no wings, and likely wouldn't appreciate me carrying you, I believe Ba'al will serve adequately." He raised up a hand and stroked the velveteen muzzle of the giant horse, his naturally cool touch causing Ba'al to twitch his head in slight irritation.

"Um..." Sam wondered, idly, if he could refuse. He didn't really have a problem with horses. But this was a Nightmare, dream horses that carried night terrors on their backs and tangled in their manes. "I'm not going to scare the crap out of some poor kid, am I?" He asked. Giving the Nightmare another wary look, he stretched one hand out toward its shoulders in preparation to mount. "Cause if I am, I am not getting on."

Rolling his eyes at the innocent question, Lucifer clapped a hand onto Sam's shoulder, "Don't you worry your poor, bleeding heart over that. We're in Hell, no children to frighten down here." Motioning out at the darkness which was occasionally lit by a plume of sulfuric gas burning off in the distance, and the dim glow from the lake of fire leagues off, he added, "Come on, Sam, the aerial tour is to die for. And Ba'al is my most faithful steed, he knows how important a guest he'll be ferrying on his back. He would sooner throw himself on the Mongol's blade or the Spartan's spear than face my wrath at any harm coming to you."

"Touching." Sam replied dryly. Turning his back on the devil, he swung up onto the Nightmare with surprising ease. It was also much more comfortable on his back than Sam had expected. Carefully, he settled into place, winding his hands into Ba'al's mane. When the Nightmare took off, he was unable to suppress a surprised yell. His legs slipped on the Nightmare's smooth flanks and his hands tightened desperately in the black mane. He could almost feel the disapproval radiating off the creature under him. "Shut up." he muttered. Then he rolled his eyes. "Fantastic. I'm talking to a horse."

Lucifer watched with a swelling pride as Sam and Ba'al launched into the air, and he burned the image of Sam astride the Nightmare into his memory. Seeing Sam in his kingdom, aback one of his subjects, warmed his glacial heart, for there was something so right about Sam being here, accepting even the smallest of gestures from the Devil. Launching himself into the air after them with a strong down stroke of his radiant wings, he tore off into the sky behind them. Once he'd pulled alongside the pair, he nodded to Ba'al, making certain that their wings wouldn't tangle in such close proximity. "Well, shall I show you the grand city that we built, our dear Pandemonium? Dear Mammon, one of the fallen angels, crafted the gold and fine jewels with such artistry that I assure you, you'll find no edifice more splendid on Earth or Heaven above."

Sam shrugged, focusing on not tumbling off the Nightmare's back. "Why not." he needed the distraction, after all. Lucifer's wings were exquisite enough when they were folded. Open and beating, they were indescribable. Sam's fingers inched to comb through the feathers. Would they be warm or cold? Soft, like real feathers? Or would they feel like metal and cut his palms like shattered pieces of glass? Her jerked his mind back to what he was doing, staring over Ba'al's shoulder at the city below him. It really was beautiful, in its own terrible way.

Signaling for Ba'al to descend with a sharp whistle, Lucifer folded his wings in close to his body and dove, enjoying the aerial acrobatics. His smile bordered on insanity as he embraced the feel of the wind ripping at him and gravity's greedy embrace pulling him towards the ashen loam below. With no more than two body lengths before he would crash into the ground, he unfurled his wings and caught the air, beating in hard, strong strokes that stopped his descent in moments. The wind played with his feathers, splaying them wide as his primary feathers seemed to stretch out in search of an updraft. Once he landed, he looked back up to watch Ba'al and Sam's flight, and his wings fidgeted with nervous energy, ready should he be needed to catch Sam in case he slipped from the Nightmare's back.

Sam yelled again, clinging to Ba'al's back with everything he had. When the Nightmare landed, he flew forward onto his neck. Slowly, he straightened up. "I am _never_ doing that again." Sam decided right then that he was never going to tease Dean about his fear of flying ever again. Ever. Not matter how tempting it might be. Because that had been terrifying. But also... Strangely exhilarating. Every vein and artery thrummed with adrenaline. His face was flushed, eyes wild, and hair as mussed as if he'd just come staggering out of the motel room. He shook his head. "Never." With that, Sam slid onto the ground, legs somewhat unsteady.

Ba'al looked back at him, flaming pits for eyes somehow seeming soulful and concerned, and the behemoth of a horse pushed his head against Sam's chest questioningly.

"Look at you, Sam, making friends wherever you go." Lucifer said, stepping forward to put a steadying hand on Sam's shoulder. "Would it help if Ba'al agreed to a saddle? With a good pommel for you to grip?" With a mischievous smile at the both of them, he turned towards Pandemonium, which was lit up like a torch in the surrounding gloom, fires burning on every parapet and an eldritch glow coming from the lamp posts that lined the streets of gold, causing the gilded cobblestones to shine and wink in the distance. "Welcome to my home away from home, Sam."

Lucifer had not been lying when he said that there was no city finer than Pandemonium, for it sported architecture that would have been impossible on Earth, fine gold spun into bridges and pagodas, glass pavilions that seemed to flow like water under their tranquil surfaces, and vast columns and statues made from the purest crystal and sapphire and blood red rubies. For as terrible and horrific as Hell was, Pandemonium was a great oasis in the desert, adorned with more beauty than all the heavenly realms.

"...Wow." Sam said quietly. It was the understatement of the millennium, but given that he hadn't planned on saying anything, it was a lot. When he was able to tear with eyes away from the shining city in front of him, Sam snuck a glance at Lucifer... And immediately regretted it. He returned his attention to the city, trying to pretend that his heart hadn't just done a back flip. That he was now finding it slightly difficult to breathe. That... That if Lucifer were to ask him to... If he wanted... Same realized that he would say yes. He shouldn't have agreed to the tour. He shouldn't have ridden Ba'al. He shouldn't have gone to seen Pandemonium. And he should not have looked at Lucifer. Because know Sam was reasonably certain that he had either fallen for, or was in the process of falling for, the devil.

"We may be living in Hell, but people forget that we were angels once, and we can still build such beautiful things." Lucifer said with a somber smile and a glint of something like pride in his eyes. Stepping forward, his feet making only the barest whisper over the golden cobbled street, he strode down the main street and pointed out interesting locations, telling Sam small anecdotes about each portion of the city, each section of architecture that caught his fancy. He looked like an ancient Roman orator then, one hand folded regally against his body while the other gestured with practiced ease, and his wings which were constantly shifting, as if even on the ground they yearned to feel the winds. Occasionally one of his wings would unfurl and he would use it to point out a particular marble frieze or jasper doorway. Then he inclined his head towards the grand palace in the center of the city, a shining spire of obsidian and glass and hematite that's uppermost spires were lost in the dark, "And there, is the seat of my kingdom. Just imagine how it would look if it were ever touched by the light of the sun..."

Sam nodded mutely. It would gleam like fire and illuminate the entire city. The only thing that would shine brighter would be the Morning Star's wings. Sam had been torn between watching them and staring at the buildings ever since they entered the city. Carefully, he curled his hands into fists and tucked them behind his back, wishing that the Asylum clothes had pockets. He could have used them to restrain his hands. Before he realized what he was doing, Sam had opened his mouth and was speaking. "Lucifer. Before... You said that you wanted me to be happy. What did you mean?"

Lucifer stopped when Sam addressed him, turning to give Sam his full attention. And at his words the fallen angel smirked, his eyes twinkling like stars in the night sky, "I mean that you are my vessel Sam, the only pure, solitary gift that my Father has ever given me." He paused, trying to think of the best way to explain it. Looking about Pandemonium, he began softly, "Did you know that when I was first cast out, I was not directly put into the Cage? I was left, battered and broken, on the shores of the Lake of Fire, my very skin melting and my wings charred to the bone. But I was determined to make a haven from this Hell. No, it was only after I had made Pandemonium and tempted Adam and Eve into sin, into knowing good and evil for themselves, casting off their naivety, that God saw fit to punish me further. So he created the Cage and locked me away into my own personal Hell, far worse than all of this, far worse than the cries of the damned and the choking sulfur and the endless night."

By now his tone had turned bitter, but he drew a breath and shook his head, dispelling the malicious mood. Turning his gaze back to Sam, he stepped forward, closing the space between them ever so slightly, until he was standing in that too close way that seemed to be natural to angels. "But you, Sam, I knew that all I had to do was hold out for you to be born. When I say that I want to make you happy, give you everything, it is only because you are everything that I waited for, you complete me more fully than Heaven ever did, than the Host ever could, and certainly more than an cruel father who wanted me to worship created beings over their creator."

His hand made to touch Sam's face, but he pulled it back, "Earth be damned or saved, none of it matters now, Sam. All I have is this," he said softly, hands spreading down and out as he gestured to himself, "an image in your mind or in your dreams, the hope that I can prove to you that I am not the villain, Sam."

Sam froze. That hadn't been the answer he's expected. If he has been crass, vulgar, rude, demanding, sly... Any of the things one would normally use to describe the devil, he would have been fine. But he was not prepared for this. Not to have Lucifer talk to him the way he had talked to Jess almost a decade ago. Not to have him almost bear his... His soul to him. But how did Lucifer expect Sam not to think of him as the villain? He'd killed Cas, he'd tortured him, he'd... Sam met Lucifer's eyes. "Help me?"

"In whatever way I can and whatever way you need." Was Lucifer's murmured response. This time when he reached forward, he allowed himself to brush feather-light fingertips over Sam's cheek, just the barest whisper of a touch. "I am _your_ angel, Sam, and fallen or not. And if you need anything when I'm not with you, pray to me; I will always listen, I will always find you." His words fell into the stillness of the eternal night like a possessive embrace, marking Sam as loved, as safe, and as _his_.

For some reason he did not particularly want to think about, Sam didn't shy away. A month ago, he would have backpedaled as fast as he could, flinging insults at the fallen angel until he was blue in the face. But now... He closed his eyes for a moment, breath whooshing out in a long, heavy sigh. "The guy with demon blood praying to the devil. The world has a sense of humor after all." He said it, but there was no bite in his voice. If anything, he sounded resigned. Sam's eyes opened again.

His next words came as a shock even to him. "Thank you."

Lucifer actually laughed then, a deep, resonating sound that seemed so out of place in Hell, even in the shining Pandemonium. "You're most welcome, Sam." Dropping his hands to his hips, he shrugged, "And dear old Dad has always had a sense of humor. Practically enamored with irony." Making a vague motion with his hand, he waved off the thought as unimportant. Then suddenly he stiffened, sensing a shift in the wind, his wings flaring protectively, reaching forward to partially shield Sam on both sides. The world around them shimmered and rippled, the dream's substance starting to fray at the edges. "Looks like you'll be waking up soon, Sam. You should know that out there..." His mouth continued to move, but the words were ripped away by a rushing wind, howling and angry. Over the din a few more of his words reached Sam in disjointed fragments, "I... won't be same... remember... pray." Then the world fell into complete darkness.

Sam woke up with a start, sitting up so fast he fell out of bed and crashed onto the Asylum floor. Lucifer's last word was still echoing in his head. _Pray_. Carefully, he righted himself, sitting on the edge of the bed. The door opened and a nurse poked her head into the room. "Sam?" She asked gently, "Is everything alright?" He nodded and it must have been convincing enough because she went away. That left him to puzzle over what had happened. None of the other dreams had ended that suddenly or violently. So why this one? And what, exactly, had changed between the two of them? And what did Lucifer mean by not the same? Lying down on his side, Sam stared at the wall until the nurse came with breakfast, unable to get back to sleep.

Lucifer was sitting on the small desk that was crammed into the northwest corner of Sam's room, his legs splayed wide as he rested his feet on the chair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands dangling loosely. He was watching Sam with a singular ferocity, almost like a predator stalking his prey with eyes that were cold and lifeless. The fallen angel made no movements, sitting as still as if he had been carved from marble; and in fact the only thing that showed he was alive was the leisurely blinks he made every few minutes. Finally his lips curled into a frightful sneer and he said in a bone-chilling whisper, "Why hello, Clarice."

The nurse did not notice the devil sitting in the corner, but Sam did. He stared openly, barely registering the concerned look the nurse gave him. They all thought he was crazy anyway. There really was something different about him, Sam thought as he bit into his lukewarm toast. He looked so cold, so... like the devil. He was almost frightening, nothing like the laughing, beautiful creature that Sam had talked to in Pandemonium. When the nurse left, he sat back, toying with the slightly soggy crust. "Is this what you meant when you said you'd be different?"

Lucifer gave a little wave to Sam behind the nurse's back, fingers moving slowly, practically caressing the air. He leaned further forward, resting his palms in between his feet on the chair, "What I meant?" Cocking his head to the side, he stretched his back and then sat back up, once again resting his forearms over his knees. "I don't know what you're going on about, Sammy." Suddenly the fallen angel's attention was focused on the two objects he held in his hands, a lighter and firecracker. "You know, it's been entirely too long since I've deprived you of sleep. I so love the way you break, Sam, you just start chipping and flaking like slate." He made an appreciative noise deep in his throat, almost thrumming with anticipation. "You're just so beautiful when your light is almost extinguished."

_No, no, no, no, no_... Sam pleaded silently. Not now, not after last time, oh please, please, at least give him a chance to get his strength back. Please G- no. Not God. Lucifer had told him to pray. And if it was a choice between praying to the devil and his internal organs shutting down, he would listen. But how did he even do it? Dean had prayed to Castiel, his words never loosing their mocking edge. But that didn't seem right. Following his gut, Sam went with the first prayer he had ever learned, amending it slightly. "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Star my soul to keep, My Angel watch me through the night, And keep me safe till morning's light." Somehow, it felt right to call Lucifer "his" angel. Now all he could do was hope it worked.

Lucifer lit the fuse of the firecracker, a small thing made more for sound than sparkle, and held it in between his thumb and forefinger. Blowing on the fuse ironically, he said, "Now, where to toss this?" Just as he chucked the small explosive onto Sam's bed, just shy of his hip, his face shimmered as if he was a mirage over an endless stretch of summer road. The firecracker exploded, sending a dull pain into Sam's hip, but even the pain seemed to flicker and pulse oddly, as if his nerves couldn't quite understand if he'd been injured or not. He looked down at his hands in confusion, flexing them into fists as they slowly became translucent. "What the Hell?"

"Sam..." A voice whispered through the chasms and valleys of Sam's mind, quiet and muffled. There was a unique quality to the voice, a distortion as if it was being spoken underwater. "I'll do what I can to limit your hallucinations. He will still be there, but no harm can come to you." The voice explained in hushed tones.

Sam sighed in relief. It _worked_. Part of him had thought he was crazy for praying to the person hurting him. But after the dream, he had thought that maybe it was worth a shot. He slumped back on the pillows and closed his eyes, flicking the firecracker away absently. He was _safe_ and it was Lucifer who had done it. He breathed a thank you, hoping the Angel could hear him.

Lucifer did not look particularly pleased that Sam had somehow found a way to partially banish him, in fact, he supposed he looked livid. Slipping from the table and stomping over to Sam's bedside, he tried to grip onto the young man, but his hands passed right through him. "Well now," the apparition said, eyes narrowing at the thought that Sam could ignore him again, "isn't this a pretty trick you've learned Sam?" Leaned down next to Sam's head, he breathed out a chilled breath of air against Sam's next and whispered saturninely, "You simply must tell me how you did it."

Sam clenched his jaw and stared past him. Without meaning to, he pressed on the scar on his palm. Nothing happened, but it was reassuring. He didn't have to listen to him anymore. He could have peace. And that was how the rest of the day went. Lucifer tried something, Sam ignored him. That continued until nighttime when Sam curled up on his side to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2: to Loose Thyself

**_Chapter 2: to Loose Thyself_**

**__**_**"**_Our state cannot be severed, we are one. One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself." ― John Milton, Paradise Lost

* * *

As Sam closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, he found himself once again in Hell, however the transition was not like regular dreams. He did not suddenly find himself in the middle of a situation where he could not remember how he'd gotten there, nor did he just appear in the realm of the dead; but he found himself besides a river of magma and fire where endless souls were struggling against the sluggish current. In the corners of vision there was always small movements or a glint of firelight off horns or fangs or claws, which made it feel like he was being followed. However nothing ever approached him, never came out of the dark and gloom, never made a sound to disturb the silence on the torrid, fetid air.

Off in the distance, there was the faintest glow of gleaming gold, but the heat of the air made it shimmer and move, a mirage of safety in the Tartarean depths.

It would seem that he had arrived in Hell without alerting anyone to his presence.

He started walking toward the gold glow. Down here, without sun or candlelight or any other illumination that the res fires of the pit, that light could only be Pandemonium. Finding Pandemonium meant finding Lucifer and Lucifer- his mouth quirked up in a half smile at the though- meant safety. Sam kept walking toward the city, senses on high alert. Just because Lucifer wouldn't hurt him, didn't mean the demons wouldn't.

Finally, he came out in front of the shining city. Ba'al stood there, tail swishing calmly, and a few feet away from him, Lucifer. Sam opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, throat suddenly locked and dry. What should he even say? He had just gone looking for the devil. If someone had told him a week ago that was going to happen, he would never have believed it. So what did a person say to the Morning Star? Nervously, Sam cleared his throat. "Hey."

Ba'al noticed Sam's presence before the man spoke, looking over at him with those expressive fiery pits and nodding his head in that repetitive motion so common to horses; however the Nightmare made no sound to announce Sam's coming to his master. Lucifer attention, on the other hand, was directed towards a shadowy obsidian demon who seemed to not be entirely corporeal as their faceted body kept appearing and disappearing as if seen through a cloud of smoke. At Sam's inelegant greeting, the demon vanished completely and Lucifer's wings rustled, feathers puffing slightly in a some avian emotional display that was lost on Sam. Turning around, his regal bearing apparent in his stature and pose, "Welcome back, Sam." A small smirk pulled up one corner of his lips as a mischievous sparkle in his eyes twinkled out at Sam.

Sam smiled, lips pulled into a nervous line. "Did I interrupt you?" He asked tentatively, eyeing the spot where the demon had been. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Lucifer. "And what was that with the firecracker? I mean, I tried the praying thing and then it got fixed, kind of, but..." A thought struck him and his eyes widened. "Was that even you?"

Lucifer waved off Sam's concern, making a dismissive motion with a hand, "No, we were done, but the elemental was being... obstinate about a point of what I wanted it to do. It's a character defect of all elementals, I'm afraid." Shrugging his shoulders at the antics of his minions, he noticed the subtle shift in Sam's body language and his brows furrowed slightly at what his vessel said next. "I'm sorry about that, Sam." he said with a sigh, and he closed his eyes while massaging the bridge of his nose. "No, that isn't me, per say. The Lucifer you see when you're awake is a product of you memories of Hell, like how you see an outline after staring at a bright light. A human mind isn't made to suffer through what you did, for how long you did, and then return to living. The Soul is resilient, the mind isn't, it's a much more fragile construct." There was a guilt etched into the gentle crows feet around Lucifer's eyes, and while he didn't verbally apologize, everything of his posture was silently pleading for Sam to forgive him, "I wish I could fix that for you Sam, but my powers are severely limited from inside the Cage."

"You helped a lot." Sam replied. He didn't know why he wanted to reassure him, but he did. If he was being honest with himself, Sam was not quite sure how he felt about his changing relationship with Lucifer.

Something else about what he'd said caught Sam's attention. "You're still in the cage with Michael? Then... How are you here? I mean, you felt really when you-" his throat locked on the words 'touched me'. It had been completely innocent, he knew. Just a hand against the side of his face. But thinking about it, it seemed so... Sam did not even have a word for it. All he knew was that the words brought to mind images that made him flush, and then angry at himself for blushing. He trailed off weakly. "anyway..."

Resting his weight on one his, he looked out towards the center of the darkness, a black so absolute that it couldn't have been natural, "Yeah, I'm still in there with the good son." Bringing up his hand, he grabbed onto the back of his neck, and it was all too apparent how tired he really was. "Neither you nor myself are physically here, this is just a dreamscape. Because you are my vessel, we can share dreams, and a trickle of my power can leak through our connection to you outside the Cage." Dropping his hand from his neck, he gestured loosely towards Sam, palm up and fingers lightly curled. "However, if we're sharing the same Dreamscape, your Soul is much closer to my Grace because we're no longer separated by a physical distance, but a metaphysical, perhaps one might even say spiritual, distance." He shot Sam a quirked smile, seemingly annoyed with how difficult it was to explain

Sam nodded. "Alright, I think I got it." Nodding again, he sank onto the ground, folding his long legs into a tailor seat. After a half second of hesitation, he patted the ground next to him. There was something a little disconcerting about having a connection to Lucifer, cage or not. However, if he didn't have a choice, he had no choice but to accept it. Sam looked over at the angel out of the corner of his eye, trying unsuccessfully to be inconspicuous. He looked away again quickly when he saw he had been noticed.

Lucifer grinned surreptitiously at Sam as he walked over and held out a hand to him, "Come on, let's go inside the palace tonight. Then you won't have to sit on this infernal ground."

Ba'al neighed in agreement, wanting to go to his stables and have a good rest.

Sam clambered to his feet, pushing off the rocky ground instead of taking Lucifer's hand. The look he gave him sent across everything he didn't know how to say. He didn't know if he wanted to break the touch barrier yet, but he didn't want to hurt him either. Brushing his hands off on his pants, he allowed himself to be led into the palace.

The inside was just as grand as the outside. The floor under his feet was made of blue goldstone, the walls of gold flecked obsidian. Torches in gold brackets dotted the walls, filling the enormous hall with light. But it was the ceiling that took Sam's breath away. It was made of clear crystal, cut so the light for the torches sent pinpricks of light dancing over the room like millions of stars. He stared around in wonder, mouth slightly open as he struggled to find the words he needed to voice what was going through his mind. "It's..."

Lucifer understood Sam's hesitation about physical contact, in some respects, but there had been a part of him that had hoped... He sighed and let go of the notion. As he led Sam into the palace, he watched the man's admiration of the structure, preferring the unabashed wonder he saw on that face over any of the marvels that Hell had to offer. When Sam spoke, or tried to, he nodded knowingly. "Mammon is a true master, although that ceiling, I am happy to say, was my idea. Mammon just did the little job of making it physically possible." he said with a light tone, obviously facetious. "When there are sulfur plumes, it looks like there's a comet shower..." Moving away from Sam, he held open a door made of pure rose quartz, motioning for Sam to enter, "Welcome to the Library. We have some rather interesting works in our collection, novels and poems from each and every author who's been condemned to Hell, works that they wanted to undertake in life but never found the time for." He motioned into the room where there were several reading nooks and a fireplace with dazzling blue flames that gave off no heat.

If it weren't for where he actually was, Sam would have thought he was in heaven. There were books everywhere, filling floor to ceiling bookcases, piled on tables, open on stands. Some rested in soft chair, covers worn from countless fingers opening them. "This is incredible!" He went from bookcase to bookcase, eyes wide. His general air was one of an excitable child in the world's biggest candy store. His fingers brushed over the cover of Leviathan and the corner of his mouth quirked up. "Now here's a book I'll never be able to look at the same." Sam looked back at Lucifer, grinning. "Thank you for showing me this."

When Sam passed into the room, joy pouring from him as almost a physical light, Lucifer leaned against the door frame to watch, crossing his arms. "It's my pleasure, Sam. You're welcome to come here whenever you wish, all you would need to do is visualize it in your mind before you go to sleep." From his perch against the door frame, he added, "This is the most comfortable seating inside the palace, so if you want you can just enjoy the room, or I could continue the tour for you." The way he looked at Sam made it evident that he would be perfectly content with whatever Sam chose.

Casting one last longing glance at the books, Sam walked back to Lucifer. "I'd like to come back here, if we have time." He carefully closed the library door and followed the angel down the hall. Each room was just as spectacular as the one before it. Mosaics made of precious stones and metals adorned the walls, ornate statues stood in alcoves lit by unflickering torches, and crystal lanterns hung at intervals from the ceiling. Every so often, Sam would look over at his host as he talked. Here he saw the Morning Star as he had been unable to before, wings folded against his back and lit from within by his Grace,

Lucifer showed Sam through countless rooms of unsurpassed beauty, and even the most utilitarian of rooms seemed regal and picturesque. The Morning Star kept up a running commentary as they strolled through the labyrinthine passageways, his pace leisurely as they meander, occasionally he would glance at Sam to point out some bust or wall sconce in greater detail. Eventually he had shown Sam through the majority of the inside of the castle, time seemingly immaterial in this place, and lead him up a thin spiral staircase. When they emerged, they were on the highest pinnacle of the great spire, all of Hell laid out before them in miniature from their vantage point. "And so, this is the world we created for ourselves." From on high, Lucifer pointed out the open air eyries, "When designing this place, we made certain to build aerial access, and on clearer evenings you can see the host of the damned flying in and out of Pandemonium like so many birds."

Hell had a sky! Or, at least, that's what it looked like to Sam. He could see the faint outlines of stalactites hanging from the cavern ceiling. They were studded with shards of the same crystal that made the ceiling in the entry hall. When the light from the street lamps below caught them, they gave the illusion of stars. He looked over at Lucifer to voice his observation and stopped with his mouth half open. His heart hammered in his chest, beating against his ribs. The angel's name slipped past his lips as a dry whisper. And the moment he looked at him, before Sam had even realized what he was planning, he kissed the devil full on the mouth.

Lucifer had turned from the view to observe Sam's reaction, seeing as the young man was far more intriguing than a city that he knew by heart. There came a change over his vessel's face, a stillness in the eye of the storm, and then suddenly his face was too close to observe. He was rather surprised by the sudden kiss, pleasantly surprise to be sure, but surprised all the same. The angel's wings fluffed, feathers puffing up as he wrapped his arms around Sam's waist loosely, trying not frighten the man away. Perhaps it was a side effect of how often Sam worried about having been his vessel, about that dynamic of this strange relationship of theirs, or even the fact that the man hallucinated him as a malicious entity, but whatever it was, he was contently conscious of never pressuring Sam into anything. So the fallen angel accepted the kiss with a hidden worry that this was a passing fancy that Sam would recoil from and deny ever happened.

Slowly, Sam pulled away, eyes still closed. His mouth burned where the angel's lips had touched him, an after-image of the contact. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. For a few long moments, he did not know what to say. Strangely, he not want to apologize or pretend it had not happened. Sam shrugged his shoulders awkwardly. "I... I'm still trying to figure out what's going on with..." he waved a hand at both of them, "so..." another hesitation, "so do you mind if I figure this out as... As we go?"

As the warmth from Sam's body retreated from him, replaced by the oppressive air of hell against his frigid flesh, Lucifer was almost tempted to draw him near again, but he didn't. He let his arms drop and gave Sam room, listening to his halting words with rapt attention. "As you wish." he said simply, a statement which words could not do justice to all the emotions and promises it encapsulated. For he was not without needs, but they became inconsequential when faced with the prospect of what Sam was saying. No, he could wait a lifetime for such a moment, already had.

Reminding himself to breath, an action that he did to seem less foreign, less transcendental, he replied, "And Sam... thank you, for praying to me." He couldn't explain to Sam how that had felt, when for the first time in his long, long life, someone had prayed to him. As angel, the feeling of a prayer was a balm to their Grace, the whisper of a mother's kindness, and purpose all wrapped into one fragile gift.

"I- you're welcome." Sam blinked. " And thank you for helping. I know- I think- I said that before, but it really did help." Nervously, he reached out and brushed his fingers over the back of Lucifer's hand before dropping his arm back to his side. As he met the angel's eyes, his mouth curved up into a real smile, causing his brown eyes to crinkle at the corners. It made him look- well, not younger, but at least look his age. More innocent, more relaxed definitely. Still smiling, he leaned on the railing, staring out over the city.

Lucifer inclined his head to Sam, a regal gesture paired with a ghost of a smile, "You did, and it was my pleasure." He fell into a companionable silence with the man, heartened to see his face doff its customary weariness and troubled expression. To say that Sam shown in that moment would be an understatement. Echoing Sam's actions, Lucifer looked out over Pandemonium, perfectly content in that moment, which of course should have been warning enough to him. For as he gazed over the city, he saw the great fractures and rifts splitting apart the dreamscape. He placed a hand on Sam's shoulder and gave it a squeeze, "Looks like it's time to wake up, Sleeping Beauty."

Sam almost laughed at the nickname until he realized what Lucifer had said. "I'll be seeing you." He reached up and held on to the angel's hand for a few seconds as the dream faded around them. When he woke in the Asylum, his hand was curled around the corner of the sheet. He sighed and sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. Then his hand moved to his mouth. He could still feel the ghost of the kiss lingering on his lips.

Lucifer chuckled, a rich sound that faded long after his body had been lost to the darkness.

* * *

********

Back in reality, an orderly was inside Sam's room, having put the covered breakfast plate on his small table and was currently busying herself with raising the shades and opening the window to air out the small, whitewashed room. She carried that faintly cloying clinical smell of bleach and medicine, and as she moved, it wafted through the room. At Sam's movement, she looked over and waved at him, "Good morning Mr. Winchester. Did you have a good night's rest?" All of the orderlies knew that Sam Winchester was a borderline insomniac, which was likely do to his schizophrenia and a likely case of multiple personality disorder. So finding him asleep - and in his bed instead of curled into a corner - was quite a rare treat.

"Oh come on, lady, drop the act and just go right out and ASK him if he fought the whole night with his imaginary friend..." Lucifer muttered darkly.

He nodded, abruptly dropping his hand to the sheets. "Yes. Thanks." Sam replied, pointedly ignoring Luc- the hallucination. It was not him, he was not real, and he could not hurt him. Sam just had to remind himself of that. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked over to the table. Bracing himself for bugs or rotting meat, Sam lifted the cover on the tray. It appeared to be normal, so he took a bite of the lukewarm pancakes. They had almost no flavor, but with the hallucinations, he had been unable to make himself eat much of anything. He had finished the pancakes and was working on the tough breakfast sausage before the orderly had even left the room.

The orderly couldn't help but stare covertly at Sam, not only had he slept but now he was responding to a question and eating his food? This was unprecedented. Deciding to push her luck one last time, she paused at the door and looked back at the man, "Mr. Winchester, Sam, do you think you'd be up to talking to your psychiatrist today?" she asked carefully, hoping that whatever this all meant, it would last long enough for the doctor to have a chance to see if the poor man was actually improving

Lucifer scowled at her and set her hair on fire. She was really starting to bug him, but he was already irritable because of this new development where Sam found him inconsequential

Sam hesitated. He did feel better and he should go to the therapist. He wanted to get out of here, after all. But there was a chance he would mention the dreams... and Lucifer... and kissing him. Sam swallowed the last bite of sausage and picked up his glass of orange juice to stall for time. If he was careful, he would be able to go to the meeting. And then maybe he could leave and meet up with Dean. Sam put down the cup and nodded. "yeah, I think so."

Nodding a little more enthusiastically than was necessary, she gave Sam a smile, "Wonderful. I'll go talk to the doctor and see when he'll be able to fit you in today. I'll be back to walk you to your appointment, alright?" Once she saw Sam's affirmative nod, she waved him goodbye and left his room.

"Well, well, our little Sammy is feeling good enough to think about returning to the world at large?" Lucifer drawled, whirling a finger in a small circle in mock cheer. Pushing off the wall he had been leaning against, he walked over to Sam and tried to lay his hands on the man's shoulders, but once again, they passed right through Sam without giving any resistance. Snarling, he leaned in close to Sam's ear and in a hushed, malicious voice asked, "And what are you going to tell the doctor, huh? That you're feeling all better because the man who you've been hallucinating fixed you up from Hell? That you're thinking pretty seriously about falling in love with him? Or perhaps that you want to go to sleep so that you can have secret rendezvous with him?" Pulling back and sticking his thumbs under the waistband of his pants, he shook his head at Sam. "Right, because that doesn't make you sound crazy at all. Sounds to me like you've traded one form of insanity," and here he gestured at himself, "for another one."

Sam flinched. Laid out like that, it looked bad. And the frightening part was that he was right. He was just changing, not healing. Admittedly, this form of insanity- he cut himself off abruptly. Thinking like that would not do him any good. This devil was not real. He was just a manifestation of Sam's doubts and corrupted memories. He knew what was real. Right?

He shook himself and went over to stand by the window. There was nothing in his cell aside from the bed and the table, so all he could do was wait for the orderly to come back. Wait and ignore his hallucinations. Tentatively, he sent a prayer to the angel, both to help himself and because of what he had said. This would help both of them. And was most certainly not crazy, he hoped.

"Then again, if you told them what you and Dean do for a living they'd still think of you as crazy, even without my help." Lucifer added as he leaned against the table. Pointing at Sam, he continued, "And then there's the question of if you're a danger to yourself, or a danger to society at large. Hmmm, let's think about this," he paused, tapping his lips before crossing his arms, "are you a danger to others? Well, you started the apocalypse. I'd say that's a bit of a danger. And then you said yes to 'moi'," he enunciated the word and laid a hand on his chest, fingers splayed wide. "You're just a whole new level of dysfunctional, aren't you Sam?"

Sam closed his eyes, focusing on his memories of the angel. His wings, his smile, the way his lips had felt. Then he added a wordless plea and sent it along. He needed this to work, and badly. Pain, he could deal with. But every word of what he was saying rang true. He could try to ignore him all he wanted, but there was no way to block out the words. And he would have to become a much better liar before he could convince himself that they were not completely accurate.

There was a sudden chill on Sam's shoulder, as if Lucifer had given a reassuring squeeze, and then an odd ripple about the room. The hallucination tried to speak but found that he was choking on a throat full of blood, and whenever he tried to utter any words, the viscous liquid would bubble and stain his teeth, slip past his lips and slide down his chin. With a scathing look more sinister than he'd ever given Sam, he disappeared in a huff.

"Sam..." The inaudible voice of Lucifer echoed through his mind. "I can only stop him for a few hours at a time, use it well." There was a shadow of an icy touch on his face, as if the fallen angel had cupped it and ran the pad of his thumb over the contour of his cheek, and it fades into the warmth of the sunlight hitting Sam's face through the open window.

Sam sighed in relief. "Thank you."

The door opened and the orderly stepped into Sam's room. "Mr. Winchester. He can see you now, if you're ready." He nodded and stood up. Use it wisely. Well, if trying to get out and help Dean and Cas was not the right way to use it, he did not know what to do. Sam followed the orderly down the hall to the psychiatrist's office. Nervously, he poked his head through the door. "Um... hello, sir?"


	3. Chapter 3: Lies Speak Loud as Truths

**_Chapter_ Three:**_ **Lies Speak Loud as Truths**_

_""But what can be done, the one who loves must share the fate of the one he loves."  
― Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita_

* * *

Looking up from his paperwork, the psychiatrist waved Sam into the room. He was an older man with a salt and peppered goatee and black hair that had greyed about his temples. When he spoke, there was the faintest trace of a Russian accent in his baritone voice, "Ah, good to see you today Mr. Winchester, or do you prefer Sam? I am Dr. Mikhail Bulgakov." Standing up from his chair he motioned for Sam to take a seat in the plush chair opposite his desk. "My assistant tells me that you are feeling a little better today? Would you be so kind as to tell me what exactly this means?"

"Sam, please." He lowered himself into the chair, settling his hands in his lap. "Well..." He hesitated, trying to put it into words, "I've been able to sleep. And and the hallucinations aren't happening as much. And I've been able to eat something." Because Lucifer is blocking them. "I'm not completely better, but I think it's improving." He shrugged, the corner of his mouth tugging up and out a little bit. "What else do you want to know?"

Making a few notes while Sam spoke, he hummed approval, "I see. Sam," He paused and put his hand to his chin, thumb propping his chin up, "many people live with mild hallucinations. The reason we've had to keep you in here is because you lost your ability to tell what was reality and what was hallucination, never mind the fact that medications weren't affective in your case. My job is to evaluate if this changes. And I have to agree with you, I think you are improving, simply because you said hallucinations. You might not realize it, but when you first came in here, you would react to hallucinations because you believed they were real, even when we gave you proof that they weren't." Gesticulating with his other hand, pen twirling around his agile fingers, he added, "So, are you finally ready to actually tell me what your hallucinations are of? You've always been very close-lipped about it, and I get the feeling it was because you were afraid that by telling us about it, then we might be affected as well... am I right?"

Sam froze. "Um..." He didn't really have a choice. "I... Well, I'd see... well the devil. Not the way people usually think of him, red, tail, horns, all that. He was pretty normal looking." He swallowed. "It started with just a bunch of- just random things, really" He would not talk about the meat hooks and chains "But then he started talking to me. After that, he made it so I couldn't sleep and he'd try to hurt me and my brother." Sam stopped talking abruptly. He hadn't meant to say that much that quickly, but it had just happened. He took a few moments to examine the doctor's expression before adding "I'm not seeing him now."

Rubbing his chin contemplatively while Sam spoke, the man waited a short while before he spoke, obviously processing the new information. "Interesting. Sam, did he do things to you, or make you think that he did? Did you ever have any indications of whether you were doing the things yourself?" This point was a crucial distinction for many schizophrenics, because even when they were presented with evidence that they had been the ones to inflict bodily injury or some such act, they would still hold to their own view of reality. It was certainly a good step that Sam was able to identify that his hallucinations had a beginning, and possibly an ending if he was no longer seeing them, but it was still a delicate situation. "Also, you're not seeing him now, but does that mean right now? Did you see him today?"

Sam floundered for a moment. "Well, since his favorite trick was to throw firecrackers in my face, I don't think so. It was more like... I felt pain, but nothing was actually happening. I guess... toward the beginning my brother would be able to snap me out of it and I wouldn't be hurt so I think that means nothing actually happened." He shrugged. "Does that answer your question? About the other one... well... I saw him for a minute or two this morning, but it wasn't as bad, and then it just... stopped." the next part wasn't true. "I don't really know why. Is there a why?"

The psychiatrist didn't look like he quite believed something in Sam's account, but it was small enough that he didn't pursue it. "A why? That's a very good question, Sam. Schizophrenics often have a chemical imbalance or a similar situation where their brain is quite literally misfiring and misinterpreting the signals inside it. However, there are cases where an individual has suppressed harmful memories and eventually those memories start to reemerge, but they can't deal with them, and so their brain tries to externalize it, which can show in multiple ways, a second personality, hallucinations, facial ticks, neuroses, and a plethora of other symptoms. With repressed memories counseling is often very helpful, because once the individual begins to process what they had buried as a coping mechanism, their body loses the need for the symptoms, which were just another coping mechanism." He chuckled lightly, "Really, the brain is the most amazing adaptive system in existence, it can handle almost anything, given enough time." Looking down at his notes for a minute, he tapped his pen on the tip of his nose and then looked back up at Sam. "This all brings me back to the fact that if we can figure out what initially triggered your hallucinations, we should be able to find a way to manage them; or with how well you already seem to be doing, cure them completely."

Sam shook his head. If he told the Dr. Bulgakov, he would never get out of here on his own. He could always make something up, but it didn't seem like the best idea. So he took the safe route and decided to lie. "I'm sorry. I don't really know." He could tell the doctor wouldn't believe him, but it would keep him here for less time than if he said 'oh, it might have something to do with spending a year in Hell being tortured my the devil and an archangel'. Sam shrugged. "It could have been a whole bunch of little things, or... I don't know. I can't tell."

"Well, if you're not sure, then we'll make that our focus. How's that sound? Let's start at childhood and we'll work our way to more recent events. So Sam, tell me about your parents. What are they like? What was your home like, growing up?" He settled into his seat, pulling his note pad into lap as he crossed a leg over his knee.

"Ah..." Sam sighed, shifting in his chair. "Well, my mom died a few months after I was born. So it was really just me, my dad, and my brother. We moved around a lot for my dad's work." The corner of his mouth tugged up. "My brother and I are pretty close." He hesitated, the smile falling away. "My dad died about five years ago. We were in a car crash."

Writing several notes while Sam was talking, he circled something and then looked up from his paper, "Your mother's death, was she ill, was there an accident? And you said that "we were in a car crash". I'm assuming you were fairly injured as well if he died in the crash." He believed that using the normal pleasantries of apologizing for death only trivialized it, a social norm that was simply empty words when people were uncomfortable with the thought of bringing up painful memories for others. After all, a large portion of his job was to do just that, find people's painful memories and see how they have been affected by them.

"I... Well. My brother was driving and a truck T-boned us. My brother wound up in a coma, and my dad seemed like he was going to be fine, just banged up." He swallowed hard. Lying about this just felt wrong. "But then.. something happened. My brother woke up but my dad just... stopped. But I was actually mostly fine. Busted an arm, but that's about it."

"I see." He wrote some more notes and motioned for Sam to continue, "How did you take his death? Your father moved you around a lot as children, did that you mean that you were moving into new homes all the time or actually on the road, motels and such. And your brother was with you, which I'm assuming is when you became close to him?"

"Motels, mostly. And yes." Sam thought about it for a moment. "I... I was sad, obviously. But our family seems to have a lot of accidents. My brother and I mourned and moved on. He was in a better place and we got called by a family friend a few days later and so we didn't have much time to think about it."

He was starting to recognize a pattern, so he pushed on. "Your father, was he emotionally close to you and your brother? With having to live in motels all the time, as a single father... would you say you were raised by him or your brother?" Sam hadn't responded to his question of how his mother died, and said that they didn't have time to mourn? This was starting to look like he'd been emotionally abused as a child by an absentee father, with how strongly he didn't seem to want to deal with things. Of course, his forming opinion could be wrong, but he had fairly good instincts when it came to things like this.

"He loved us both, but... we had conflicting ideas about what I should do with my life. He wanted me to go into the family business, I wanted to go to law school. So I left and we didn't see each other for a while. My father wasn't perfect, but I loved him." Sam bit his lip, knowing what this sounded like and hating it. "And yeah, I was a lot closer to my brother."

The psychiatrist was nodding again and scribbled down a few more notes. "How was law school for you? Your first time out on your own?" He was careful to keep his tone questioning, as he had a rather strong feeling that Sam was leaving out important information in between everything he said; which was fine, they were going to have to build up trust slowly. It was much more dangerous to call a schizophrenic out on things than to just let them tell you their side of the story, their reality, and then slowly work them back from it; like stopping a jumper, he supposed.

"It was great. I went to class, stayed in one spot, made some friends. I had a girlfriend." Sam looked down, shoulders slumping. "But then my dad went missing and my brother wanted me to help look for him and Jess died-" he swallowed around a sudden knot in his throat. "Point is, I left and never got around to going back." Sam straightened his shoulders, pushing back the urge to cry. He hadn't really thought about Jess or his father in a long time. And with recent events, he hadn't even been able to think about Dean much. It hurt a surprising amount.

There was a small sense of accomplishment when he noticed that Sam was finally actually stopping to think about the events he was retelling, and not just listing them off like facts or dates from a history lesson. "Sam, it's alright to feel emotions about what's happened in your life." he said in a gentle voice when he noticed that Sam was instinctively burying his emotions again. "If you keep everything bottled up inside of yourself, you're never going to be able to get past anything, because you'd never dealt with it in the first place. I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that your schizophrenia is likely stemming from repressed emotions over all these terrible events in your past. And with your mother dying when you were so young, I'd also hazard a guess that no one else in your life taught you how to deal with pain, besides ignoring it or rationalizing it or blaming yourself."

Sam opened his mouth to insist that, yes, it was his fault. Jess died because of him, his mom. Dean had gone to hell for him. His father's death wasn't his fault,, maybe, but he had felt horrible. Everyone he had failed to save... He blinked and a few stray tears rolled down his face. Sam brushed them away quickly, blinking hard. "I learned how to deal with it. Find the bastard responsible and make sure he gets what he deserves."

That was a loaded statement, and the older man knew he'd have to be very careful with how he proceeded. "The bastard responsible? Responsible for what, exactly?" He put down his pen and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, once against lightly resting his chin on his thumbs.

"Depends." Sam shrugged his shoulders, a tense, almost bird-like movement, "I went to law school so I could put criminals behind bars. So murderers, thieves... any of it. Everything has a consequence. And someone has to make sure people get theirs." He knew the words sounded harsh, but they were true. Sam wouldn't- couldn't- allow someone, monster or human, to get away with hurting someone.

"And you believe that responsibility falls to you? If a murderer gets away, or isn't convicted, is that your fault?" It would appear that Sam had quite a strongly developed sense of justice, quite likely from a history of being powerless against the course of his fate. What with losing so many people, and he rather suspected that some of them had been killed, it made sense that his suppressed emotions would manifest as rage, but being a gentle soul at heart, he had tried to re-purpose that into an overarching sense of justice. Which all came back around to the core question, why was his hallucinations manifesting as the Devil? That was still not quite clear, there must still some missing pieces to this puzzle.

"If I can do something about it and I don't, then yes!" Sam replied. "Just sitting there while someone needs help- it's just wrong." This man was a doctor. His job was to help people who were sick. So why didn't he understand what Sam was telling him. It felt like running repeatedly into a brick wall. He made one last attempt to explain. "If you don't, you're as bad as the person."

"But what if you try to help and nothing you do is quite good enough, the jury decides that the murderer is innocent, or he gets let off on the basis that too much of the evidence is circumstantial? Sam..." he paused and lowered his right hand to the desk, fingers absently tapping out a staccato rhythm, "you won't be able to get them all. I'm trying to clarify this because I need to know that you know that the world isn't on your shoulders. The very fact that you see the Devil, that he torments you so that you can't even sleep, that's a pretty strong signifier that you aren't just fighting against injustice and criminals, but you see yourself directly responsible to hold evil at bay. This is very important Sam, you are only one man, the fate of the world does not rest solely on your shoulders. Now, that may take you a long time to come to terms with, but trust me, no one can live under that heavy a burden."

Sam almost laughed. The fate of the world isn't on my shoulders? He thought. I started the apocalypse, there's a civil war in Heaven, and I'm Lucifer's vessel. He said nothing, only nodded as if he wasn't fighting the urge to roll his eyes. But the thought of his hallucinations having meanings beyond not getting any sleep was an interesting one. His mind had plenty to choose from, after all. His time in the Cage was by far the worst. However, if it were just that, he should have been hallucinating about Michael, too, shouldn't he? He debated asking, but decided that it would raise too many uncomfortable questions.

Seeing the younger man roll his eyes made the psychiatrist a little worried, but this was only their first session - first session where Sam talked at least - so he couldn't really expect miracles. It was called the ''healing process" for a reason, after all. "Well Sam, I think we made some real progress today. Our session is just about over, so are there any questions you have for me?

"No, sir." he replied. Sam stood up and held out his hand. "thank you very much." After shaking the doctor's hand, he left and went back to his room. That had been... Well, one possible word was interesting. Also frustrating and confusing. He had opened up, telling the psychiatrist things he honestly had not meant to, but he still hadn't answered every one fI the doctor's questions. Sam knew keeping that kind of information from a professional would only make it harder, but telling him was not an option if he wanted to ever get out.

It was about a half an hour after Sam's appointment with the psychiatrist when there came a gentle knock on his door and it opened inwards on silent hinges. "Mr. Winchester?" The orderly from earlier asked as she poked her head into the room. "The doctor has decided to try changing your medication, so hopefully these will help more than the last ones." She was holding a small serving tray that sported a diminutive plastic cup which contained a colorful assortment of pills and a much larger paper cup which held water.

Sam looked at the medication mistrustfully. "What are they?" He took the plastic cup off the tray, angling it this way and that. "If it's sleeping medication, I seem to be doing fine..." Now that he was doing better, he was reluctant to put anything in his system that would cloud his mind. It seemed like the only thing they would do was harm. He raised his eyes to the orderly's face, giving her the same look he had used more times than he could count to get information from a reluctant witness, the one that could get them to tell him even the most obscure or strange details.

Smiling warmly at Sam, she poured the medication onto the tray and pointed at them, "These two here are Clozapine. We've tried other medications to treat your hallucinations before, but seeing as none of them had any effect, we're moving to this. Now, there is a rather dangerous potential side effect with it called agranulocytosis, which means that your body's white blood cell count begins to decrease. Because of this, we'll also be giving you weekly blood tests to check that count. And this one here is an anti-depressant to try and help with some of your 'negative symptoms'. Oh, and then this one is just your garden variety mulch-vitamin.

Sam nodded slowly. The blood tests could be... interesting. For one, he hated needle. It was silly after all the pain he'd gone through in his life. But at least most of that had been dulled by adrenaline. Also, he had no idea how demon blood would affect a blood test. But it wasn't as if he had a choice. Sam tipped the pills into his mouth and washed them down with a gulp from the cup of water. Wiping a few drops off his mouth with the back of his hand, he smiled a thank you at the orderly. "He thinks these will help?"

"Yes he does, Clozapine has been used very successfully in the treatment of hallucinations, even when other anti-psychotics weren't. So hopefully we should see a decrease in your hallucinations in a week or two. However, he doesn't want to just treat you with medications, so you're going to have sessions every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. And he wanted me to remind you that honestly is the best policy." Having done her duty and said her fill, she slipped the now empty tray under her arm and left the room, locking the door again behind her. They might have agreed that Sam was doing better, but it would take more time and observation before they were certain that it would be safe for him, and others, to join everyone in the 'Day Room'.

Time passed slowly in the white room, a gentle breeze occasionally pushing the blinds hard enough to gently tap the glass. It was an hour later that the hallucination returned, Lucifer standing rigid and tensed in the middle of the room, dried brown blood stains all down the front of his shirt. There was a swath of sticky, half dried blood across his mouth and cheek, where he'd tried to swipe it off with the inside of his arm, which gave him a particularly rabid look. His pale blue irises appeared almost white, completely washed of color against the blood shot sclera. Opening a mouth that was stained crimson, he sneered and his voice came out raw and gravelly, "Well bunk buddy, good to see you again." Placing his hands together he cracked his knuckles ominously, "I think your little angel used up too much power with that last stunt. So how about you and I spend some quality time together?"

Sam's blood ran cold. He could pray all he wanted, but there was nothing he could do. If the medicine worked, it would make this better, but Sam knew it wouldn't. These hallucinations had been created by an angry archangel. But as long as he was able to sleep, Sam thought he could cope. The hunter set his jaw and tried to prepare himself for whatever was coming. In hindsight, though, he should not have wasted the energy. There was no way to prepare for what happened.

Lucifer was across the room in a heartbeat, moving so fast and fluidly that it almost seemed like he had teleported, and then his fist connected with Sam's nose and there was a horrifying crack as the bone broke. The momentum of the blow pushed Sam's head back, but Lucifer's other hand was already behind him grabbing at his hair and wrenching it down, bending his head backwards at an unnatural angle to look up at the demonic visage above of him. At this angle, all of the blood pooling in his nose was now flowing back through his nasal cavity and down into his throat, choking him with the warm, coppery tang, throat trying vainly to swallow but unable to with the angle it was craned to.

Then Lucifer's sneer widened into some hellish smile, all teeth and twisted, as his face began to bubble, blisters and lesions appearing on his once fair skin; returning to how it had looked at their last meeting on Earth. "So, you like him better, hmmm? Running to the The Serpent, the Great Dragon? You don't really think he cares, do you? I mean, you're JUST. A. VESSEL." He yanked hard on Sam's hair to punctuate each word, Sam's scalp screaming from the abuse, and breathing was practically impossible. An errant thought struck Lucifer then, so his other hand wrapped about Sam's neck in a vice-like grip and he effortlessly lifted him into the air and slammed him against the wall. "To quote Death, 'you have an overinflated sense of self worth.'" he said through clenched teeth. Holding Sam against the wall, thumb and fingers clamped down on the jugular vein, his eyes shone with dark mirth as he could feel the pulse in the man slowing, slowing, stopping. "How does it feel to have your life cut off, Sam?" he asked as Sam's body started to involuntarily twitch as the brain was cut off from its vital supply of oxygen.

Sam's vision flickererd and faded. This isn't real, this isn't real! he screamed at himself. But it didn't seem to matter. His brain was convinced he was being choked, that he was smothering on his own blood. Dimly, Sam realized he was going to die. Maybe he'd end up in Pandemonium. If he hadn't been dying, if he'd actually been capable of making a sound, of even thinking, Sam would have laughed. Wishing for hell was going a little far.


	4. Chapter 4: Sound and Fury

**_Chapter Four: Sound and Fury_**

_"Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight."- John Milton, Paradise Lost_

* * *

Sam's body jerked as a double shock from a defibrillator stopped, then re-started his stuttering heart. He sat up with a gasp, choking and hacking on the sudden lung full of air. He filled and emptied his lungs over and over, just to remind himself that he could, in fact, breathe. Reaching up with one hand, he felt the unbroken line of his nose.

The nurse stared down at him in poorly disguised shock and horror. "What happened?"

Sam shook his head and lied for what felt like the hundredth time that day. "I... have no idea."

The nurse checked over his vitals with a quietly reserved efficiency, almost as if she had been coached to talk to Sam as little as possible. When she had assured herself that Sam's condition was once again stable, she pulled back and her place was filled by Sam's psychiatrist. "Hello again Sam. How are you feeling right now?" Sure of the fact that Sam wouldn't suffer heart failure or arrhythmia, he needed to try and ascertain Sam's emotional and mental state.

Lucifer was standing against the wall, just behind the doctor's shoulder, and he gave a little wave before returning it to the crook of his elbow, arms crossed over his chest. "Hey there, Moose. Did'ja really think I was going to kill you? I mean, if I kill you now, just think of all the fun we would be cutting short."

Noticing that Sam's attention was pulled away from him, eyes focusing on that all too common middle ground, slightly unfocused, the doctor sighed quietly. "Sam, are you hallucinating right now? Is it the Devil again?" This sort of reaction wasn't unheard of, for a schizophrenic to try and open up and then have their guilt addressed in counseling was sometimes too much, too soon, and then their negative schema would tell them that they deserved to be punished for burdening others or for thinking that they were in any way not at fault for their problems. He had hoped that Sam wouldn't have such a strong adverse reaction, but when they had found Sam unconscious on the floor, a hand print bruise already half blossomed over his throat, it was obvious that the Winchester's case would not be so cut and dry. Now he just needed to understand if Sam had attempted suicide - choking yourself would never work - as a plea for help and attention, or whether he his hallucinations had attacked him and his body had turned on itself in the confusion.

He nodded slowly, turning his attention back to the doctor. "He's... standing behind you." Sam swallowed hard. His throat felt bruised and raw. "What happened?"

Then he realized. The doctor had mentioned that his hallucinations could cause him to hurt himself, and that was exactly what had happened. Sam's eyes widened in horror. "Did I just try to strangle myself?"

He looked down at his hands, trying to understand what had happened. This was worse than when Dean was trying to force the demon blood out of him, and that had nearly killed him. How was he supposed to survive this when he was doing it to himself?

"Alright Sam, can you remember anything about what he was saying to you earlier? Did he attack you? I know it's hard right now, but you have to remember that while he is real to you, he is still a product of your mind, your schizophrenia. The things that he says might help us figure out ways to break him down, until you can assure yourself that he isn't real." The doctor looked at Sam kindly, never once inferring that he was crazy or deluded, because to Sam this all was real, was potently dangerous.

"Are you going to tell him that I was throwing a temper tantrum because your boyfriend banished me this morning? Or how about I'm the one who drove the final nail into the coffin that's become Dean and your relationship? Oh, oh. How about the fact that you're just so very susceptible to persuasion that I can make you do almost anything I want, and you'll think that I'm the one driving the car the whole time, right Sammy?" Lucifer chipped in, tone falsely enthusiastic over a cruel undertone.

Sam flinched again, but otherwise ignored him. "He punched me- broke my nose. Then tried to strangle me." He swallowed again, sore throat protesting the movement. "He said that I'm just a vessel- a body- and said I wasn't worth anything." He shook his head. "There was something else, but I don't remember. Sorry."

He rubbed his neck, feeling the circle of soreness around his throat. "Can I have some water?" The nurse passed him a plastic cup and he raised it to his lips. But instead of the clear non-taste of water, his mouth filled with hot coppery- He threw the cup across the room, frantically spitting the blood out onto the floor. Demon blood, the cup was full of demon blood! He stared at the spray of red on the opposite wall in horror. He would not go down that path again.

The doctor and the nurse looked at each other, and then she went up and picked up the now empty and dented plastic cup. Turning his attention back to Sam he said, "Sam, what did you see? That was just water to us, but what is it for you?" Holding his hand out to the nurse, she gave him an ice cube and he offered it to Sam. "Maybe you'll have better luck just sucking some ice, which will be more soothing for your throat right now anyways." The poor man had said that the devil had punched him in the face before choking him, and sure enough, there was an odd swelling about the nose, as if he'd slammed his face into the wall.

Chortling in the corner, Lucifer looked like the cat who ate the canary, "Oh Sam, getting ready to be my vessel again? You shouldn't have."

"Blood." He responded quietly, before popping the ice cube in his mouth. He shuddered, remembering the copper-sweet tang of the burning hot liquid. And at the power it gave him.

Cautiously, he looked up at the doctor, frightened of what he would see. Sam wasn't worried about a demon's face, or blood. He simply did not want to see the pity he knew would be there. It made him feel weak, helpless, unable to fight. And in his current situation, his options were to fight or die, possibly, it seemed, at his own hand. Sam refused to do that to his brother.

He could imagine what would happen. Dean would get a call on one of their many cellphones. He'd probably ignore it, but sooner or later he would check his messages. Then he would tear across the country to find him in the Asylum morgue. Dean would stay together just long enough to give him a hunter's burial before self destructing. Likely, he would be dead within two months. So Sam owed to his brother to keep fighting.

Nodding and biting his lower lip in consternation, he thought for a moment before muttering unconsciously, "Interesting..." Finally he'd come to some conclusion and actually looked at Sam, "We have some options, Sam, and I want to run them by you to see what you'll feel comfortable with. If you're hurting yourself we need to find some way to keep you safe, but we know that you have an over developed resistance to sedatives, and to get to the levels where it starts affecting you is medically ill advised. The fact that you're currently seeing him means that you're likely not going to be out of the woods for a while. Now, we could have an attendant with you during the day, to help you in case you lose touch on what actions are being done to you, by you." he worded it carefully, making the distinction clear that both realities were happening for Sam before continuing, "Or we could have you in restraints. Whatever path we choose, I'm going to want you to work with me, because we're going to set small, manageable goals for you to keep your focus on, to keep you from getting overwhelmed by this."

Rolling his eyes, Lucifer pointed towards the doctor and mouthed the words, "And they say that you're crazy? This guy thinks he can fix you."

"If you set too big a goal, like wanting to be cured so you can go and rejoin the world or be reunited with your brother, you're setting too daunting a task. So let me hear a manageable goal that you want to try and work towards right now." he said with gentle assurance that Sam could - in fact - beat this with enough time and patience.

"Don't tie me up!" Sam's eyes widened in horror. Please, no. "I... could someone just stay? I mean, I don't want to be a danger to anyone, but I just don't..." He trailed off awkwardly, trying to ignore Lucifer's antics.

The idea of being tied up made this seem more and more like fighting off the demon blood. And he would be unable to fight him off with his hands bound. Sam shook himself. There was nothing to fight. It didn't matter if he could move or not. But he would not allow himself to be restrained.

Then he realized that having someone in the room with him would mean they would hear him praying. Which wouldn't really be a problem if he were not praying to the Morning Star. He could keep the prayers silent, but Sam doubted he would be able to completely hide that he was praying. So the doctor would find out about- and probably blame his hallucinations on- his religious beliefs. He was not entirely sure how he felt about that.

With Sam's rather emphatic refusal to restraints, the psychiatrist's suspicion that Sam had been abused in his past was only further strengthened. "Alright, that's just fine. We'll have someone sit with you. But Sam, I still need you to set a goal, ok? Something that you can focus on..." He could tell that Sam was nervous about something, and he wasn't sure if it was just the thought of restraints or something more; but with the Devil in the room, he supposed he couldn't blame the poor man.

Lucifer put his hands against each other and closed his eyes in an overly dramatic fashion, mocking Sam's prayers, "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray that Lucifer won't beat me into a heap, and should I die before I wake, I pray my hallucinations my soul won't take." Opening an eye and looking as Sam in a sidelong glance he added, "Oh yeah, they'll definitely think you're coo-coo for coco puffs." Then he winked and walked around the bed, sitting down on the bed besides him opposite the doctor. Lazily he trailed the nail of his pointer finger across Sam's chest in loose sigils.

Before he could stop himself, Sam lashed out. His hand passed clean through the devil before striking the wall. He hissed in pain, cradling the rapidly bruising limb to his chest. "Don't touch me!"

Sam felt a strangely familiar tingle in the back of his mind and pushed. "I said don't touch me." A blast of pure energy radiated out from the wild-eyed hunter, throwing the doctor and the nurse across the room. Still, Lucifer did not move. He jumped to his feet, gathering another blast of power. Just before he let it loose, he looked down. The nurse and doctor were staring at him, their faces identical masks of confusion and fear. He forced the power back down. "I am so sorry..."

There was a rippling wave of power, like the surge wave before a tsunami, as the two medical personnel were thrown against the wall. A crack resounded through the room when the nurse's head hit the door frame, her eyes suddenly dimly vacant, likely having just suffered a concussion. After the doctor had checked to make sure the poor nurse wasn't too badly injured, he stood up and stared at Sam, then over to the space where Sam's eyes kept drifting. To his credit, the man squared his shoulders and faced the situation without trying to rationalize what had just happened. "Samuel," his sudden use of Sam's full name showed that he was fighting very hard to remain calm in the charged environment, "you said you see the Devil... right? Does he see you?" He had never been an overtly spiritual man, but this was far beyond what he could explain with schizophrenia.

"Oh come now, he's not going to ask you if you're..." Lucifer started to say but was cut off when the psychiatrist started speaking again.

"Are you... possessed, Samuel?" he asked tremulously, obviously struggling to even ask the question which he had likely spent his entire life trying to combat with diagnoses and drugs and appeals to reason.

Lucifer crowed at that, laughing loud and harshly, "I can't believe this, Sam! Humans never cease to amaze me."

Sam shook his head violently. "No! I promise. I mean, he can see me, but... that's just the hallucinations, right?" He looked between the doctor and the nurse, eye wide and imploring. "Sir, I swear, I didn't mean to do anything. I don't even know how that happened. I haven't-" He stopped himself before he could say 'used my powers'. "I just don't know."

He sat slowly, staring down at his knees. He had to talk himself out of this one, and quickly. Sam looked up again. "Are demons even real? Angels? Any of that? I mean, I always sort of thought of them as metaphors..."

Seeing expression on the the doctor's face, Sam realized he was getting nowhere.

Mikhail looked at Sam, floundering for any sort of answer, "I'm sorry Sam, but I'm out of my depth here. We'll... call around, maybe find you a priest?" The sound of the commotion had brought two orderlies who burst through the closed door and quickly assessed the situation. Turning to hold out a placating hand towards them, he gave a quick glance and nod at the sedatives, and the men knew instantly what they had to do.

"Ah, and now they're going to try and restrain you against your will, because you're not just a danger to yourself anymore." The fallen angel said with a snort, resting his weight on one hip after he'd stood up from the edge of the hospital bed. "Shall we see if I can keep you awake through all of it? Keep you away from your precious angel?"

The doctor had been talking, but noticed that he'd lost Sam's attention again, so he waved the orderlies to charge Sam, one of them holding onto his arms from behind and bending him over the edge of the bed while the other grabbed Sam's right arm and tried to steady him enough to find a vein to inject the sedative into.

Sam stared at the the doctor in confused betrayal as the white room faded. When he opened his eyes, he stood in Pandemonium.

He looked around quickly, trying to spot the angel amid the city's gleaming buildings. He could not see him. Feeling increasingly nervous by the second, Sam ran toward the palace. He did not stop in the main hall, or hesitate by the door to the library. Instead, he charged up the stairs toward the tower where they had ended their last meeting. About half way up, he noticed an obsidian door that stood open slightly.

Sam pushed it open further and peered through. "Lucifer?!" His eyes went wide and he ran in. "What happened?"

Lucifer was collapsed on the floor, his breathing heavy and ragged. There were no visible wounds on the angel, crumpled as he was, but there was a strange air of defeat that hung like a heavy miasma in the air. Upon hearing Sam's voice, he pushed himself from the ground, leaning heavily on the wall as he tried to get his legs under him and stand up. When Sam approached him, he waved the man off, obviously trying to salvage what little pride he had left after being found collapsed, refusing any help. "It's alright, Sam. I just... I had banished your hallucination but... something is wrong. Very wrong. That thing isn't just a hallucination..." he said through labored breaths, one open hand steadying himself against the wall and another wrapped around his torso. "It's much too powerful, sent a surge of energy back at me as my banishment of it was fading."

Finally he looked up at Sam, eyes widening slightly as he saw something in his vessel. "Why is there sedatives in your system? Sam... what the hell is going on out there?"

"Um... long story." Ignoring Lucifer's protests, Sam pulled one the angel's arms over his shoulders- slightly awkward with the height difference- and helped him over to the couch. When he was certain he wasn't going to fall over, Sam explained.

"The hallucination tried to choke me... Don't freak out, please. And the doctor and a nurse came in and wanted to know what was going on. But the thing kept going at me and eventually... well, I have these... powers, i guess. I hadn't used them in a while and they just came out by accident. So now they think I'm possessed and they knocked me out with tranquilizers..."

Laying his head onto the back of the couch, he closed his eyes with a sigh. "I know about your powers Sam. After all, I was the one who commanded Azazel to make the Special Children." he said, sounding marginally better not that he was sitting down. Still as a statue for a moment, he thought about what Sam had said, "Did your powers... effect it?" This would give him a hint to the creature's nature at least. If any demonic entity, seeking to torment Sam after his betrayal of Lucifer, had been appearing to Sam, then it would have been affected. However, the energy that had burned through his veins like liquid fire was something he dimly remembered, as if from another life, because it had felt angelic. An angel. Now there was a disturbing thought. Why would Heaven worry about Sam now that Lucifer was safely locked away once again?

"No. It just... stood there. You really don't know what it is?"

Now Sam was well and truly scared. Lucifer didn't know what it was, and it was powerful enough to turn him into an exhausted heap. Still lost in thought, he reached over and started rubbing circles into Lucifer's shoulder. "Are you okay, aside from being tired?"

When Sam noticed what he was doing, he faltered for a second, but did not stop. This was okay, wasn't it?

"I have an idea what it might be... the fact that your powers didn't affect it means it's not demonic or earthly, which leaves... an angel. And the power that attacked me definitely felt like Holy Fire. The only problem with that is I can't imagine why an angel would be interested in tormenting you now. I mean, you no longer serve any threat as my vessel with me trapped..." His words trailed off as he finally noticed what Sam was doing, and noticed Sam noticing what Sam was doing. Giving the man a lopsided smile, "Ah, yes, I'll be fine. The Cage largely negates angelic powers, so their attack was not as strong as it could have been."

"Is there anyone who jumps out at you?" Sam asked, raising one eyebrow. He started scrolling through the list of all the angels he had heard of, with the exception of Castiel. Samael? No, he wouldn't care. Zachariah? Dead. Raphael? Dead. Gabriel? Dead and not his style at all. Michael? In the Cage. With Lucifer. Who was still able to visit and influence earth with the help of his tie to Sam.

He stared down at Lucifer, brain whirring away at top speed. "Is there any way at all it could be Michael?"

Lucifer's eyes widened for a moment before his carefully constructed mask fell back in place, "Michael... but he's..." Suddenly he remembered how long it had been since he'd seen Michael inside the Cage, but it was a vast, desolate place, so it was possible for the angel to evade him if he had wanted to be left alone. And yet, "That would make sense, he often would torture you when you were still in the Cage, changing his shape to look like... me." The last word was a whisper, barely stronger than a breath of air. How could this be though? How would he have gotten out? Because what Sam had gone through was the effects of a fully powered angel toying with him, not someone trapped inside the Cage. "If it is Michael, then we can't leave you alone with him, he will see nothing wrong with killing you once he has had his fill of your torture." Michael had made it infinitely clear in their time in the Cage that he blamed Sam for making him incapable of fulfilling his destiny set out by their Father, and slaying Lucifer. It was twisted, but Lucifer had seen the love in his eyes, that he wanted as much to defeat his rebellious younger brother as to set him free. And to cross Michael was to earn his wrath.

"How did he even- my soul." His eyes widened in horror he shuddered. "When Death stuck the stupid thing back in me, it was... so incredibly bright. Painfully. Only other time I've seen light like that was when Castiel... The jackass hitched a ride on my soul?!" Sam jumped up and started pacing. He'd been ridden every which way, by Lucifer, by Michael apparently, every single time. He whirled around, snatched a small, rather shapeless statue off a side table, then hurled it across the room. It struck the wall and shattered. Sam stood there for a few moments, breathing hard, before sinking onto the floor and rubbing his temples.

"That would make sense..." Lucifer conceded, as the dark, putrefactive roots of injustice and indignation began growing in his chest and strangling his heart; because once again, God had chosen to bless Michael and leave him alone in the Cage. But that made sense, after all, Michael was still the good son. He was torn from his momentary self loathing introspection when Sam threw a statue against the wall. The angel found himself on his feet and crouching besides Sam before he had even registered that he had moved, arms and wings wrapped protectively around the man's shoulders. With their minds so close in this dreamscape, he was catching flashes of Sam's emotions, and somehow his pain cut deeper than Lucifer's own, but there were no words that he could think to say. So he merely held onto Sam, offering him the sympathetic touch that had been denied him.

Sam wrapped his arms around his ribs and held on tight. If Lucfier had been human, Sam would have bruised his ribs. But he was an angel. Part of Sam's mind laughed at the fact that he was physically incapable of causing him any real harm. His mind began to wander and he immediately forced himself to think about completley innocent topics. Sam sighed, resting his head on the angel's shoulder, slowly running his hands up his back. "Thank you."

The angel felt warm in his arms and the wings around him were safer than he could ever remember being. Sam shifted into a more comfortable position, cradling him closer to his chest. Sitting there on the floor of a palace in Hell with his arms around a fallen angel, Sam had never left more at peace.

As Sam relaxed into him Lucifer decided to return Sam's earlier gesture, rubbing slow, comforting circles on his back with one hand while his other arm was wrapped low about Sam's waist. Realizing that this position would get uncomfortable for his legs, he unfolded his crouched legs and sat down, letting his legs out on both sides of Sam. With Sam safely clutched to his chest, he sighed and began speaking in low, soothing voice, "I know Sam, I know. We'll figure something out, and then you'll never be an angel's plaything ever again. Then Dean won't have to worry about you, and those stupid humans won't hold you in their padded cells of burning white where even shadows seem to disappear. I'll find a way to keep you safe, just trust me." His primary feathers lightly caressed the back of Sam's head as they formed a barrier around Sam to keep the outside world at bay.

Sam pressed a kiss to the devil's forehead, mouth pulled into a tight smile. One hand moved up to brush through the tiny feathers at the base of Lucifer's wings. They were softer than silk and chimed like crystals when then slid over his skin. "These are... can I say beautiful?" He asked quietly.

They stayed that way for a while, arms around each other and Sam's fingers combing through Lucifer's feathers. He let his forehead rest against the angel's, letting out a slow sigh. "You're right. We'll figure this out."

Just having that "we" made everything seem that much better.

Lucifer's wings wavered slightly when Sam's fingers first laced themselves into his feathers, but then they settled themselves, moving ever so slightly closer to the human. "Certainly. You know, there was a time when I was thought the most beautiful angel in Heaven, largely because of my unique wings." He didn't tell Sam that those wings which had been viewed by all as a blessing were instead viewed as a mark of his 'otherness' after he rebelled, nor did he tell Sam how the feathers had been ripped and pulled from his wings when he was cast out and had taken centuries to grow back. In the dark of the Cage, the only light had come from Lucifer himself, alone with the silence, unless he moved his wings to hear the soft clinking of those resplendent feathers. However, he wasn't alone now, was he? Looked at his vessel who willingly had turned to him for comfort, Lucifer couldn't help but feel that maybe, just maybe, his endless exiled solitude was coming to an end. "That's right, Sammy, we will."

"I can see why." Sam replied, feeling his face heat up.

This wasn't a problem he'd had before. Usually, he barely had to flirt, not that he didn't know how. But that had always been with girls. Sam had been too preoccupied with the hallucinations to wonder about what this meant about his sexuality. And now, with the angel he was falling for- his mouth quirked into a smile at the irony- resting against him, didn't seem like a good time either.

So between Michael, and the way he felt about Lucifer, and the questions both those things brought up, Sam was very confused. There was also the matter of Dr. Bulgakov wanting to call a preacher.

"You know," Sam said quietly, "I think that quack is actually going to try an exorcism."

"He wants to... what?" Lucifer asked with a chuckle. The very idea of someone wanting to exercise Sam was ridiculous, as any studied individual would see his anti-possession tattoo and know that no demon could worm their way into his body; but he supposed it had been a very long time since humans had known what that symbol was and the power it contained. "I almost wish I could be there to see it, a priest trying to exorcise an angel who's terrorizing you. I'm not sure who to feel worse for, the priest or you." he said with a wry smirk, hoping his levity might raise Sam's spirits.

"Now, we need to think of some way to stop Michael." Switching tracks, he gave Sam a tight squeeze around his waist before he stood up, wings flaring slightly to help with his balance. Holding a hand out to Sam, he hauled the man up to his feet. "I hate to say it, but there is precious little I can do from inside the cage. I can banish him for a few hours at most, or lessen his powers effect on you, but I certainly can't defeat him as it stands now." What he needed was a way to either get Michael back down into the Cage or a way to get himself out, both of which were easier said than done.

Sam let the angel pull him up, slightly- and irrationally, he was an angel after- surprised that aquifer could lift him. "The angel banishing sigil? Getting the blood might be a bit difficult, since odds are I'm tied up..." he glanced nervously at his wrists, "But I could manage it. If it would work without Michael having a proper vessel, then problem solved."

Sam looked up. "Can you even exorcize an angel? Maybe we could find some way to give him the ritual for it, instead of for casting out demons. Not that doing the normal exorcism on me would hurt me. It would just make them frustrated." Sam was thinking out loud, drumming his fingers on the side of his leg. His eyebrows we drawn together in concentration, and he was a few seconds away from pacing. "Can you think of anything I'm missing?"

"Sigils..." Lucifer intoned, thinking of possible symbols and incantations that might help. "The angel banishing sigil would get him away for an hour, maybe two. What we need is some way to hid you from him so you can get out and get access to supplies you'd need. Because if he rode out of the Cage on your Soul, he's tracking it specifically, and your Enochian sigil of hiding isn't doing anything." Concentrating for a moment, a jar of blood appeared in his hand, and the angel walked over to a table nearby. Dipping his fingers into the blood, he began finger painting sigils, shaking his head and muttering under his breath as he tried to compile several sigils together that would hide Sam from Michael's gaze.

Sam looked at the angel in confusion. "Lucifer. I'm asleep. I don't think painting those things while I'm- Hold on. Are you putting those up inside my head?" His eyes widened. "That is... actually a bit creepy. You're painting the inside of my skull."

He scratched the back of his head with one hand, the though giving him a phantom itch. "That is very disconcerting."

He started pacing back and forth, running through all the incantations he knew in his mind. There were none that seemed as if they would help, but he filed a few away just in case.

Lucifer swiped a hand through one sigil, smearing it out and starting it over with a few modifications. "Yes and no. Some of them will be effective enough if I do this inside your mind, however some of these," here he pointed to a few sigils that once completed changed from the dark crimson of blood to a dimly glowing white, "are going to have to be done by you in the real world. So I'm actually burning the image of the sigil into your memory." Looking back at Sam he gave a rakish smile.

"Which is why I feel like there's something crawling around in my head?" he muttered under his breath. Then, loud enough for Lucifer to hear, "Thanks."

Sam tilted his head slightly, studying the sigils painted onto the stone wall. They were relatively simple and very elegant in construction, their lines speaking of old power. And a lot of it. The corner of his mouth tugged up and he nodded. "These look like they'll work nicely. Anywhere in particular I should put them?" There were some signs that had to be alligned to compass points, and if these were among them, Sam wanted to do it right. Holding off Michael was too important to screw up.

"Now all I have to do is figure out how to actually get the blood." Sam pressed his lips together thoughtfully. It have been difficult even before his... episode. They weren't allowed knives for very good reasons. But after his episode... Odds were that he had been tied down. If he were free, he could have clocked himself in the nose if he had to, but not with his arms held to his sides. He'd figure it out eventually, but he didn't have time for eventually. Michael had to be stopped before he either killed Sam, or caused Sam to kill someone else.

"If you're in restraints, I'll see about getting you out. As long as they're touching your flesh, I should be able to affect them." Lucifer said with only a hint of the exhaustion from earlier. Having said that, he realized that they were as prepared as they were going to get and he looked back to Sam. "You never cease to amaze me, Sam. Thrown into a nearly impossible situation and you take it all in stride without a complaint." he said somberly with a ghost of a smile. "Truly amazing."

He shrugged. "I... sort of started the Apocolyse, the world is chock full of Leviathans, and I've got demon blood. It's... honestly starting to become a bit underwhelming. I've adjusted, I guess. For the most part."

It was true. A few years ago, hearing that he had an angel on his tail and another one running around in his head- especially if it were Lucifer- would have sent him into a poorly contained panic. But now, after everything he'd seen... It was strange to think about how much he'd changed sense Dean had come to "visit" him in Stanford.

"Mmmmm." Lucifer replied with a noncommittal noise. His next words however were stolen as the world began crumbling around them. So, giving Sam a nod, he vanished into the darkness as Sam began to wake up. He could only pray that Sam would make it through all of this, underwhelming as it might seem to him, this was Michael they were dealing with, and Lucifer knew firsthand how terrible his vengeance could be.


	5. Chapter 5: Te Rogamus, Audi Nos

**_Chapter 5: Te Rogamus, Audi Nos_**

_"We exorcise you, every impure spirit, every satanic power, every incursion of the infernal adversary, every legion, every congregation and diabolical sect."- Supernatural exorcism ritual_

* * *

Sam woke with a start, jerking against the restraints on his arms and legs. Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, he began to fight them, throwing himself against the padded leather in an attempt to loosen the cuffs. However, they were made especially for situations like this and capable of holding back someone much stronger than Sam.

He fell back with a sigh of frustration and twisted his head to look around the room. A nurse sat in one corner, staring at him. Her face was a mask of poorly disguised fear and concern. Sam raised an eyebrow. "What did you expect me to do? Just lay there?" His voice carried a bite created by fear. Every time in the past he had been unable to move, it had been accompanied by pain. When he was being purged of the demon blood, when the ghouls had gotten hold of him, the cage... His heartbeat hammered in his chest as adrenaline flooded his system. Taking a deep, ragged breath, Sam closed his eyes and tried to calm himself down.

The nurse almost flinched when Sam talked to her, not expecting him to wake for hours yet, but she schooled her features and took several deep breaths. "Well, so you're awake," she replied, still a bit flustered. "Um, yes. You're going to lay there and," her next words were barely whispered, "not toss me with your evil powers like last time..." After a moment her training finally kicked in over her fear and she added, "Do you need anything? Water, some food?"

"Could you let my hands up?" Sam sighed. "And I do not... I don't have _evil powers_. I have no idea what happened. One second I'm being attacked by Satan, and the next, I'm being manhandled and knocked out." He gave her the look Dean had affectionately named his "bitch face" and went back to staring at the ceiling. Of course she was frightened, he could understand that. But hearing the words "evil powers" from a professional was just ridiculous. Here, their observations and treatments should be based on science, not superstition. Even if it was completely accurate.

She stiffened at his words, an internal struggle over whether she could trust him or not. "How do you explain how Dr. Bulgakov and I were thrown across the room? Hmmm?" Her fear made her words harsh and piercing, meant to inflict pain to cover her own insecurities. "And I was told not to let your shackles off, or don't you remember that you're a danger to yourself?"

"I just said I don't know what happened. In case you haven't noticed, my head's on a bit wrong." He snapped back. His control over his temper was slipping quickly. He had been beaten and tortured, drugged, dragged back and forth between dimensions more times than he cared to admit, and he was sick of it. He had a plan he needed to put into action and this quivering little wisp was not going to be the thing to stop him. But with her here, he couldn't ask Lucifer to mojo off his restraints. It would confirm her belief that he was possessed. Sam ground his teeth together, giving the restraints a tug that sent bolts of pain shooting up to his shoulders. "Listen lady, I'm more likely to hurt myself with these on than anything. So could you please" he almost spat the word "get these off me?"

Narrowing her eyes, she looked off to the side, deciding that she couldn't take this. "I'm going to go get one of the orderlies to watch you." In all her life, she had been taught to have sympathy for the poor confused patients in her care, but this man - that hadn't been natural. Something had thrown her against that wall and she couldn't explain it, couldn't rationalize it, and that fact shook her to the core; and when people are cornered like that, it takes a special type of person to face the unknown; she was not such a person. Slipping from the room, she set off to get someone else to watch Mr. Winchester.

Sam sighed in relief, sitting up as much as he could. "Hey, Lucifer? Now would be a good time." he though as loudly as he could. The nurse had left a pen on the desk and he would have enough time to at least put the sigil on himself. The other two might have to wait, but he would get the most important one down.

The moment his arms and legs were free, Sam got up. The room blurred and swam. When he opened his eyes again, he was laying half on the floor, half on the cot. "Stupid sedatives." Slowly, he walked over to the desk. The pen tip scratched slightly as he drew it over his skin; recreating the rune Lucifer had shone him. When it was finished, he went back to the cot as quickly as he could and lay down, slipping his limbs back into the loosened straps. He didn't like to do it, but it would be better if they didn't know he had gotten up.

Not more than a few seconds after Sam called out to Lucifer, the buckles of his restraints slowly undid themselves, releasing him from his captivity. "I've been masking the fact that you woke up from Michael, but affecting physical objects..." Even as an incorporeal voice in Sam's head, Lucifer sounded exhausted, "bit harder. Get going, Sam, and good luck." Then the slight pressure in the base of Sam's skull was gone with the departure of the fallen angel from his mind.

Now Sam was in a race against time.

Sam managed to wait half a minute before deciding that the coast was clear enough to make a run for the kitchen. Glancing up and down the hall, Sam dashed along the tiled corridor as quickly as his unsteady legs would carry him. Once, he had to duck into a janitor's closet to avoid being spotted. Finally he made it to the kitchen. Keeping low to the floor, he snuck through the unoccupied room. It was just late enough that the dinner shift had left.

Spotting a knife rack, Sam snatched one of the smaller blades, holding it flat against the inside of his arm. He also snagged an apple and the end of a loaf of bread to quiet his stomach. Spoils tucked tight against his stomach, he ran back to his room and shut the door after him.

The pen was right where he left it. Dumping the rest of the items on the cot, Sam uncapped it and carefully drew the second symbol on the wall. Then he picked up the knife and made a shallow cut on the back of one leg where it wouldn't be spotted. The last symbol finished, Sam bolted down his makeshift meal and stashed the knife under his pillow exactly two and a half seconds before the doctor walked in the door.

When Mikhail Bulgakov entered Sam's room, he immediately noticed two things; the first was the giant bloody smears on the wall that look like some kind of ancient symbols, and the other was the fact that Sam's restraints had been undone. He had never been a religious man, but after the events of today, he was seriously considering going to the local parish near his house and finding himself some religion. Couldn't hurt when you had a patient who seemed, for all extents and purposes, to be possessed. "Mr. Winchester... is that blood?" Never mind how he got out of his restraints, the blood on the walls seemed far more ominous at that moment

"Um..." Sam looked from him to the wall and back, painfully aware of the blood staining the back of his pants' leg. "No?" Silently, he cursed himself for the poorly executed lie. It looked like he was going to find out what affect an exorcism would have on a human with demon blood. He had no choice, apparently, but to hope for the best. Trying to salvage the situation, he cast a (falsely) horrified look at the wall. "...I mean... wait? You can see it too? I though I was just... there's blood on the wall?!"

The psychiatrist's eyes narrowed slightly as he could practically smell the lies spewing forth from the younger man like a putrescent vapor. He wondered briefly just how long Sam intends to lie his way through conversations, and in that portion of his mind that is always the doctor, ever the psychiatrist no matter the situation, he doubted that Sam will ever stop. In fact, he doubted very much that Sam in lying because he is a psychopathic or an impulsive liar, no, these lies have a flavor of fear and self-preservation to them. It's a familiar flavor that Mikhail had often found in the lies of the insane, so certain that to tell you the depths of their madness would mean that they will never be believed again, never be let out. "Right. And your restraints? How did those come undone?" he asked, thinking it safer for the moment to not address the lies and the evasions.

"They just sort of opened." he shrugged. "I.. Woke up and I was trying to get out of them and I got a hand free. So I opened the rest and got up." Strangely, this was the closest thing he'd said to truth so far, but he knew the doctor wouldn't believe him. Sam sat down slowly, making sure to turn so the bloodstain wasn't visible. "I didn't think it was supposed it be possible to get out. But.. You know... There are always these stories about crazy people being stronger than normal and... Well... Is there any truth to it?"

Mikhail noticed the discrepancies in Sam's story, but again, refrained from directly commenting on them. "The human mind actually limits your muscular control to about a third of its total potential, seeing as each of your muscles is broken down into corded groups that are used in... rotation, you could say. Under extreme duress the human bodies release of hormones and chemicals such as adrenaline can overpower your natural limiters, such as the mother who is able to lift the car off her child after a crash." he listed off the data in that disconnected, logical voice that he'd always associated with medical professionals; it gave him a slight comfort to appear professional in the face of this unexplainable situation. "Could you tell me why you took off your restraints, Sam?"

"I guess I panicked." He said honestly. "I don't like to be tied down. I..." Sam decided that his best bet was to distract the doctor. "I was attacked a few years ago. They..." He made his voice and hands shake slightly, "cut into me, were going to kill me. But... Dean rescued me. He got the police in therre in time to save my life. So since then... I just can't stand not being able to move. I didn't want to tell you cause..." Sam took a long, shuddering breath, "It's hard to talk about. But You need to know, I guess. So... that's why I didn't want to be restrained in the first place."

"Ah, I'm sorry that this is so stressful, Sam." The psychiatrist replied with understanding. It looked like he was considering saying something more, but his train of thought was sabotaged by a knock on the door and it admitted a priest into the room.

The priest gave Sam a swift wink before turning to Mikhail, "Dr. Bulgakov, I presume?" They exchanged a few hushed words, but just loud enough for Sam to hear were the phrases "necessary solitude" and "I'll call you in after...". Deferring to the expert, Dr. Bulgakov nodded a fair well to Sam and the priest and then excused himself from the room. Once he was gone, the priest put a finger into his tight collar and pulled lightly, trying to loosen it a little. Then he gave Sam a full-fledged smile and said, "Hiya Sammy." That's right, Dean had snuck into the hospital in the guise of an exorcist. But really, what else were brothers for?

"Dean!" Sam jumped to his feet, face stretched into a grin. "How..." Shaking his head, he walked over to his brother and wrapped both arms around his shoulders. "Good to see you." He stepped back and raised an eyebrow at Dean. "I'm assuming you heard what the quacks here think I've been up to?" He looked at the bag hanging on Dean's shoulder. "I'm also assuming you brought holy water, just in case." He spread out his arms. "Well. Go ahead."

Dean clasped his arms around his brother, holding on for a moment too long, too desperately. It was obvious that he hated having to leave Sam in here, and probably still felt guilty. "Eh, like there's a nut house that I can't sneak into." He wouldn't tell Sam how he found out about the request for Sam's exorcism, not 100% sure himself on that really; he knew he was informed in a dream about it, and some portion of him couldn't help but think that maybe Castiel is alive out there, somewhere, and sent him the tip. Or maybe another angel? Well, once he had the tip, all he had to do was get to the hospital before the real exorcist.

At Sam's insistence of checking him out with Holy Water, he pulled out a small, sanctified flask and unscrewed the top, flinging some of the blessed water onto Sam. No reaction, he hadn't thought there would be. "I'll want to hear about it, but first we need to get you out of here."

"Um..." Sam looked at the symbols drawn on the walls. "Dean... I think it's a bit more complicated than that." He sat down on the cot, indicating for Dean to sit at the desk. "So... Remember how Death gave me my soul back?" He hesitated for a few long moments before continuing. "Michael hitched a ride on it and now he's the one giving me the hallucinations."

The moment the words were out of Sam's mouth, he knew he had made a mistake. Dean would want to know how he could figure that out. He could lie to the doctor, to the nurses, but he could never lie to his own brother. But he could not tell him about Lucifer, either.

Resting just on the edge of the desk, poised to spring up should action be required, Dean listened to Sam's words with an increasingly tense expression. The change in his face was slight, most would have missed it, just a tightening around his jaw as he clenched his teeth together and a slight flaring of his nostrils. Such small tells that Sam must know like the back of his hand; but never mind that, he was the older brother who protected Sam, he couldn't let him see that he was worried. An awkward silence fell in the room, cloaking the two men like a fog bank rolling in from off the sea, and Dean stared hard at Sam. "Michael... Michael's out of the Cage?" The thought was, well shit, it wasn't good. Dean would be lying if he wasn't worried by the implications of that simple statement, but like hell he'd tell Sam that. "Wait, so if he hitched a ride out, what about Lucifer? He out too?"

"Ah, no. Lucifer's still locked up. And since Michael doesn't have a vessel, he only seems to be a problem for me. I'm guessing that the Cage might still be causing problems for him or something." Sam finished.

There was just so much he couldn't tell his brother, Sam realized. If Dean found out about Lucifer, it would be a whole meaning to the phrase "hell to pay". So he would have to keep their meetings secret.

_Yeah, like that's worked out so well_, a little voice at the back of his head muttered. Immediately, he looked around, expecting to see Luc- Michael somewhere in the room. But for once, it really was just Sam's brain. He scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "But the point is, without those symbols on the walls, aligned the way they are, he can get at me. And I'm not sure if they're permanent."

Dean eyed the sigils on the walls distrustfully, they might look legit but, "Sam, where did you come up with all this?" There was an edge to his voice born of distrust. He didn't want to immediately doubt Sam on this, but he couldn't see any way that his brother could have come upon these sigils on his own. Dean's mind immediately shot off in twelve directions, trying to imagine where Sam could have learned these and almost all of those roads led to the same conclusion, one which tied in with how emphatically assured Sam had been that Michael was out and Lucifer was still in the Cage. "Sammy, please... please tell me that you're not talking to Lucifer, or Michael for that matter. You know better, you _know_ we can't trust anything they say." Dean knew he was close to sermonizing at this point, but he didn't care. It really didn't even matter that he hadn't gotten confirmation for his theory, he knew Sam too well. This was exactly the sort of stunt he'd pull. "Angels are dicks, giant, powerful, manipulating dicks. The only thing they're good for is serving their own purposes and trying to gank you in the back!"

"What about Cas?" Sam knew it was a low blow, his brother was still mourning the angel, but he had to say it. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he realized what he had done. "Dean... no... I..." He could see it was too late, so instead of trying to lie to his brother, he confessed.

"It... I finally started getting some sleep. But I'd end up talking to him in my dreams, like what Cas did with you." He shrugged his shoulders defensively. "For a long time I just snarked at him... but eventually... he saved my life. A few times, really. I can't just ignore that! So yeah, he gave me the sigils. That's the only reason I'm not a drooling mess on the floor right now. But I'm the one who figured out that Michael escaped." Sam crossed his arms over his chest. "If you're going to yell at me, just get it over with."

Sam's first words bit into Dean with a surprising ruthlessness, as if the words themselves were hellhounds and his year was up. They clawed and bit and dug into all the things that he wasn't letting himself think about; and his face shut down even tighter, eyes cold and hard, mouth a thin line. Dean coped with the world by not acknowledging anything. The only thing that he'd ever broken that for was Sam; and his brother was _not_ going to try and make him elevate Castiel to that level, not after everything that had happened, not after the betrayal and the damage he'd done to Sam. Not after all that. So no, Dean was _not_ going to rise to the bait.

Then Sam had backpedaled. Typical, idiotic Sam, too caring to actually last a full argument without apologizing, even if it was never with his words.

"The devil saved your life, Sammy? Just... explain that to the rest of the class, because I sure as hell ain't getting that." He asked, voice hard and just the smallest bit bereaved. Of everything, that was the detail he just couldn't understand. It was Lucifer's fault that his brother's mind had broken in the first place - well, his and Castiel - and he honestly couldn't imagine how Sam could just trust him like this. A few dreams and they're, what? Friends? Trusting each other? _Oh, I'll bet that's just what Lucifer wants... Why can't you see that, Sammy_?

Sam sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Okay, yeah. I know he did a lot of damage. But... He stopped the hallucinations, Dean. I've been able to sleep. If he hadn't done that, my organs would have shut down by now and I'd be dead. He made it so Michael couldn't hurt me, exhausted himself stopping him completely so I could talk to the doctors." He trailed off for a moment, trying to figure out how to put the rest of it into words without telling his brother that...

Sam shook his head. "It just isn't as simple as it used to be. Like... Like when we were working with Meg. Only... When he was trying to get me to let him use me as a vessel, he promised he would never lie to me. And he never has so why would he start now? It's not like it helps him. I can't get him out of the cage and he knows it. So if you can think of anything, please, tell me."

He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

"Yeah, fine..." Dean replied with a phrase that he truly hated whenever Sam used it, but in this case it fit. He didn't like it, didn't like it at all. This was reckless and fool hardy and stupid, and not just their usual stupid. There may not even be words to describe how stupid this plan was, trusting Satan or all people - things -, but he knew that to keep fighting the point now would only galvanize Sam's resolve. That, and there was a small voice at the back of his head that whispered that he was being unreasonable; they'd only just been reunited two minutes ago and already they were having a fight. The voice sounded surprisingly like Sam, all bitch-face and whiny, but perfectly reasonable at the same time. Dean hated the fact that his conscience sounded like Sam, made it that much harder to stay angry with the kid. "But I don't have to like this..." he appended, decided that if his conscience could sound petulant, than he could too. It helped direct some of his energy from worrying about all of this. "So what's the game plan?"

Sam watched his brother's face as it went from angry to resigned. He had... well, not won. Dean still did not believe him and there was nothing he could tell him to change his mind. He sighed, absently biting the inside of his cheek as he thought.

"Um... Well, first we have to figure out how to keep Michael off me. Second, I need to get out of here. Third, we have to get rid of the archangel for good. Any idea how we're going to actually _do_ any of that?"

Dean leaned against the table on the far wall and crossed his arms, thinking about Sam's predicament. "Only way I know how to kill an archangel is an archangel's blade, and I doubt you have one up your sleeve anywhere... We do know that we can buy a few minutes with Holy Oil, but even that didn't slow Michael down last time." What they needed was help, allies. There was no way they were going to be able to figure this out on their own. He looked around the room again, "Explain these sigils to me. What exactly do they do?" Sniffing lightly he noticed the coppery tang of blood and he frowned, knowing that Sam likely had to use his own in this case. "Didn't hurt yourself too badly there, did'ja Sasquatch?"

"Nick in the leg, nothing nasty." Sam replied. he got up and walked over to the first sigil. "This one's like the ones Cas put on our ribs, except a lot stronger. The other one is some pretty high-level angel proofing. That one has to be lined up with the North Star or it doesn't work. So it would be sorta impossible to do in the Impala. And I don't think you'd appreciate me graffiting the car."

The corner of Sam's mouth quirked up. Even after all these years, Dean's attachment to the Impala never failed to amuse him. He used to joke that although Dean seemed to be completely incapable of committing to any girl, he would never be unfaithful to the old car.

"Wouldn't happen to have a hex bag equivalent so we can get you to a little safer location?" Dean asked gruffly, annoyed at the fact that these sigils were holding them here. "How bad is it, when Michael is around? Can he hurt you enough that we wouldn't be able to make a run for it?" He was carefully annoying the comment about sigils on his baby, because that is simply _not_ acceptable; never mind the fact that he'd put her together more times than he could count and would be perfectly able to throw on a new panel if he needed to. It was really the principle of the thing.

Sam briefly debated lying, but decided against it. "He almost made me strangle myself to death." He replied, lifting his chin to display the dark circle of bruises around his throat. "Apparently it's impossible so I'm still alive... but it's pretty bad. Lucifer's managed to hold him off but can only do so much from inside the cage." He took a deep breath. "He can stop him from hurting me, but not from talking, not without exhausting himself completely. And that only works for a few hours. He just comes back pissed and there's nothing I can do about it."

He started pacing, favoring his bleeding leg ever so slightly. "I'm sure he could come up with something, but I'd need to stay here long enough to dream again so I can talk to him. But... I think I could get out of here in a day or two, depending on how difficult it is to get the ingredients.

Dean ran a hand down his face and sighed, "Just great... I suppose I could go out and tell the staff that this exorcism is proving to be difficult and will take a couple days, that way I can check in on you. But I have no idea on how we're gonna get away with the sigils. I mean, I don't really see the staff here just letting those stay up on the walls." He had to fight to stay on task and not let his mind wander to exactly what Michael had done to Sam. If he had his way, he'd find a way to gank this angel and every other one in Heaven. Seemed to him that the entire lot was rotten to the core. They played at being high and mighty, but all he'd ever seen from them were controlling bastards with a vindictive streak a mile wide.

"Well..." Sam kept pacing, looking between the two symbols, one in ink and one in his own blood. "I... really... have absolutely no idea. Think you could convince them that you need to keep them up for the exorcism?" His mind was going at a thousand miles and hour, concocting excuses and semi-plausible reasons. "Maybe... You need to be able to get rid of all the evil at once. So... since these things can from the Devil" he rolled his eyes "You need to cleanse them too. But it has to all be done at the same time."

"Alright, I'll BS something to them and try to keep your room free of cleaning supplies." he said with a ghost of a smile just barely quirking a corner of his mouth upwards. "I'm sure I can come up with something good. Maybe tell 'em that demonic possession can spread through contact with the symbols, like a disease?" Then his mouth really did lift up into a smile, still haunted and weighed down by the insurmountable odds that this will work, but a smile. For Sam. "Well, whatever I tell 'em, I'll be back tomorrow to hear what you and your satanic feather duster have come up with." There was a brief moment where he felt dread at having to leave Sam here for a second time, but he settled the panic by reminding himself that Sam wasn't as bad off as last time and, no, he's not abandoning Sam to fight this alone.

"Satanic... Feather duster?" Sam asks slowly, one eyebrow disappearing into his hairline. "What the hell?" He laughed at the irony of what he had just said and reached out to hug his brother, clapping him on the back. "It's good to see you again, Dean."

It was a relief to be able to do this. Sam even when he had been fighting off the hallucinations, he had missed his brother to the point where it was a physical ache. Then, when he had started talking to Lucifer, his daylight hours ahead been divided between worrying about the fallen angel and Dean. Just having him back for a few minutes lifted an enormous weight off his shoulders. His brother was alive and fighting and together, they could take down Leviathans, the king of Hell, and an archangel.

Which brought up an interesting question. "How are you doing with the Leviathans?"

Dean grinned a small mischievous smile at the nickname, obviously pleased with himself and Sam's reaction. Damn, it was good to see Sam up and on his feet, not a space-case or paranoid and glancing at invisible devils all the time. And then Sam just had to go and have a bleeding heart that worries about the entire world. It had always been like this though, hadn't it? He thought acridly, careful to keep his expression controlled._ I get him back and he's immediately rearing to go, never lets me have the chance to soak it in that he's gonna pull through_. Dean may have hated chick-flick moments, but damn it, sometimes he just wanted to appreciate the fact that he's gotten his brother back; and that line of thought dredged up the horrible memories of when he'd sold his soul to bring Sam back. Definitely not the time... he admonished himself. "Eh, haven't gotten myself killed yet, but no closer to Dick, either. Frank's tracking a few leads for me. Not gonna let 'em slip anything past us."

"Good." Sam nodded and sat back down, rubbing his leg above the cut. "Good to know you're still... While I'm in here and all that."

He knew Dean would never stop fighting, not really, not while Sam was alive. But he had seen his brother shut down after he lost someone too many times to just take it for granted. Dean would keep fighting as long as he and Sam were breathing, but what he was fighting for was another story entirely. He had known there was a very real chance that Dean would ignore the Leviathans in favor of curing him. But after what he had told him, Sam could relax.

He looked up, guilt twisting in the pit of his stomach. "And how have you been?" Sam cursed himself under his breath. _Idiot_, he thought, _that should have been the first thing you asked_.

"I've been... fine." Dean replied a little stiffly, as he always did when asked about how he's doing. It was his job to keep Sam safe and happy, and how he felt really doesn't factor in. He survived it, that's all that matters. All that kept him going was his hatred of Dick Roman and his _need_ to make the man pay for Bobby's death. So Dean was alone in the world with only a paranoid conspiracy theorist for help, all the while his brother was just about dying in a locked ward. Really, how do you think he was doing?

There came a knock at the door. "Father Angelo?" asked a tentative voice.

"Looks like it's show time." Dean gave Sam a nod and motioned for him to go lay down on the bed.

"_Angelo?_" He mouthed, arranging himself on the cot and slipping his wrists and ankles back into the cuffs. Then he settled back, waiting to take his cue from Dean.

While he waited, he thought about what his brother had said. Dean could lie to most people with absolutely no problem, but not him. He wasn't fine and he knew it. _He was still mourning Castiel._

It was stupid of him not to have realized. His brother and the angel had been close before the Leviathans...

"I'm sorry" he muttered. "Now, I think you have an exorcism to do. Or... a fake one."

"_Sounds official._" Dean silently replied. Hurrying over, he secured the restraints on Sam's ankles and wrists and claps his brother on the shoulder. Then he turns and opens the door, issuing a few staff into the room. "He's a little calmer now, but the demon hasn't relinquished his grasp on Mr. Winchester, nor has it told me its name. This is rather common, exorcisms taking several days. I'll be back tomorrow to continue. In the mean time, leave him and his room alone, except to give him meals. Do not talk to him, do not address the demon if it talks to you through him, and whatever you do, do _not_ touch those symbols on the walls. They may look harmless, but until I've broken the demon's hold on him, those can easily serve as conduits for more demons to possess anyone who touches them." It's a fine bit of acting, something that Dean used to leave to Sam to do, but that hadn't been an option lately. He only hopes that it will be convincing enough.

Sam hid a smile. Dean had improved dramatically in the... How long had he been gone? The smile slid from his face at the realization. He didn't know what day it was, or month. Dean had been learning and fighting and he hadn't been there for any of it. Dean could have been killed and Sam wouldn't have known about it until another hunter found and told him, which may not have happened at all. He needed to get out. But Dean had ordered them not to touch him or talk to him. And so he was forced to stay strapped to the cot for the rest of the day. Sam shifted on the thin mattress, trying to get himself comfortable. After his impromptu nap earlier this afternoon, he knew there was a chance he would not be able to sleep. Sam shook of the thought and closed his eyes, trying to quiet his mind. He needed to talk to Lucifer. And to do that he had to be asleep.

Barely over an hour later, Sam slipped into Pandemonium. He stood outside of the center palace. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. Either he was getting better at steering, or Lucifer had done something. Either way, this would save time. Sam ran up the stairs, looking for the fallen angel. He found him on the balcony of the top tower.

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**A/N:** The next update will be in about a week, if I'm lucky. I'm sorry it's taking so long, but I can only write as fast as I get responses from my lovely writing partner. So please be patient and I will update as often as I can.


	6. Chapter 6: Hail Mary

**_Chapter Six: Hail Mary_**

_"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death." from the traditional Hail Mary prayer_

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Lucifer was a faintly ominous storm, a barely contained rage as he stalked back and forth on the balcony. His eyes would fit upward and then close and he'd let out a weary sigh. This was all getting harder to maintain and he had so few ways to control the situation. Before he would have at least been able to send a few demons to protect Sam, as round-a-bout as that might seem, but even that influence was denied him now. After Azazel's death, his ability to communicate with the demons was cut off, and he doubted anyone under Crowley's new reign would respect his authority. Never mind that he had once been their leader; alliances were notoriously short lived in Hell.

The fallen angel was pulled from him fevered thoughts when he heard steps upon the stair and he turned, wings flaring ever so slightly. When he saw that it was Sam, his wings nestled back against his body and he allowed himself to draw in a deep breath. "Sam." he said in greeting, inclining his head marginally. "Were you able to use the sigils?"

"Yeah, I got them done." Sam's eyebrows drew together as he took in the tense line of the angel's shoulders and the ruffled wings. "Are you alright? Something happen?" He went over to Lucifer, placing his hands gently on his shoulders. "Really, did something else come up or is this about the whole mess with Michael?" Despite everything that had happened, it still felt odd to be calming the Morning Star. But it needed to be done and he wanted to do it, to make sure his angel was all right, so he did it and ignored what his years of conditioning told him.

When Sam's hands touched his shoulders, Lucifer couldn't help the involuntary stiffening of his muscles; physical touch was something that he had been denied for so long that he still had to force himself to let down his guard. "It's nothing that important." he replied, trying to diffuse Sam's worry. "It's just a frustrating situation and there's precious little I can do."

"I know the feeling." Sam nodded and almost stepped back and away before he thought better of it. His reaction to someone other than Dean touching him at all could be bad. Someone touching and holding on when he wasn't expecting it usually made him want to punch the guy. However, none of that meant that he did not occasionally want contact. So maybe it was the same for Lucifer. Instead of letting go, he simply changed the pressure of his hands until it was almost unnoticeable. "And, Lucifer? Please don't say it isn't important. If something's bugging you, I..." Sam's mind reeled as he realized what he was about to say. "I want you to be able to talk to me."

Lucifer had his pride, had it in spades; but at Sam's gentle insistence, he weighed whether his pride was more important than allowing Sam to feel useful, to feel included. It wasn't as hard a decision as he'd expected. After all, what good was his pride if it alienated the only soul in existence that he gave a damn about? And those two points of reassurance on his shoulders, that tentative connection with Sam, he couldn't do anything to lose that. Not again. Letting a breath out through his nose to display his annoyance at the situation, he replied, "I'm practically useless in all of this, and that... is... infuriating. I am an archangel, the mightiest of all of God's creation, but I can't _do_ anything to help you. Not really." Lucifer looked to his hands for a moment and then clenched them, corded muscles shifting under his skin, pulling taut.

"Actually you can and you have. Those symbols... Michael hasn't done anything. And you kept him off me." He smiled, a genuine smile meant to reassure. "If it makes you feel better, Dean and I need instructions on a hex bag that will keep Michael off my back." Sam could see how hard it had been for Lucifer to talk to him, to open up. That he had done it anyway sent a warm flutter to the center of his ribcage, right behind his heart. "Thanks. Really, for everything."

"But it's all so _limited_..." Lucifer bit back, his voice clipped. Sighing again, he turned from Sam and looked back out at Pandemonium. "Before I would have at least been able to send out some demons to protect you, distract Michael." It might not have been all that successful, of course, but this level of restraint and lack of real action made him feel like the caged animal he was. He didn't need more reminders of his fate. He really didn't. "A hex bag?" Looking over to Sam, he pondered the suggestion; he hadn't thought of using witch magic. "That... that might work." With some sort of direction to latch onto, his mind focused like a laser array, beams of light coalescing into a singular point. "There is a very old ritual I know of to make a suitable hex bag, but you're not going to like it..." he said with a sidelong glance at Sam.

Sam swallowed hard. "What is it?" Possibilities raced through his mind. Would he have to sell his soul? Kill someone? Kill Dean? He balked at the last idea. He would rather spend every second fighting off an archangel than murder his own brother. It was _never_ going to happen, no matter the cost to himself. He looked at Lucifer warily, bracing himself for the worst. "If it hurts Dean, I'm not doing it." Sam stated simply. That was how it would be and if Lucifer didn't like it then he would just have to learn to.

"Nothing would be needed from your brother, or yourself, beyond a sprinkling of your blood. The ingredients themselves are prosaic enough, a sprig of holly, a charred skull of a cat, two bones of a chicken's foot, goofer dust, crystal sulfur, and lavender. The problem is in the ritual. These ingredients need to be combined inside the sign of Saturn, and bathed in the blood of an apostate human..." Lucifer hesitated over that description before he explained it further, "Blood of a human who has cast off his own nature by drinking demon blood... yours. But it would need to be recent, Sam." He looked away, a silent apology writ into his stance.

Despite all his mind's whirring and guessing, Sam had never, even for a moment, considered that possibility. Memories came flooding back. The taste, the smell, the power... and then the burning, white hot, all-consuming agony of purging it from his body. Of being thrown around in Bobby's panic room, the same one that no longer existed. "How..." Sam swallowed hard, feeling himself go pale. "How would Dean... he'd never..." But he knew he would agree if it would save Sam's life. "How would he even get the supplies into…" the exorcism. As little as he liked it, Sam had no options. He could either try to hold of Michael, or drink a little demon blood then spend a few hours getting rid of it. And then it would be over. He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together. "How much would I have to drink?"

"Two gallons. Sam," he hesitated, unsure of how to explain this, if he should, "drinking that much, when you have been clean, _will_ affect you. It's not as much as you had to drink in Detroit, but..." The silence was warning enough. Lucifer's wings ruffled, resettling tight against his back and he rolled a shoulder. "I'm sure your brother will think this is a ploy to ready you to be my vessel again. Think what you will, I'm still stuck in the Cage, so whether you're cock full of Ovaltine or not, it can't really do me any good... All I can guarantee you is that I will do everything I can to help you come back down from it afterwards." Solemn eyes latched onto Sam's eyes, "I won't leave you to deal with it alone."

The words hit Sam like a battering ram to the stomach. His mouth fell open and he gasped for air like a fish out of water. His lungs didn't seem to work and his blood was pounding in his ears like a drumbeat. Two Gallons. Two whole gallons of demon blood. How was he supposed to get rid of that? Getting rid of the relatively small amount Ruby had given him had nearly killed him, and in the end he had not been able to do it. Two whole gallons? Dean would never... But Sam knew he would and that he had no choice. if there were another way, Lucifer would have told him, wouldn't he? But drinking that much and then trying to purge himself of it would kill him almost as certainly as Michael would. Unless...

"Would you... Do you think you would be able to get it out of me after?" Sam asked hopefully, praying that the angel would say yes. Because there was absolutely no way in Heaven, Hell, or on Earth he would be able to do it by himself.

Lucifer shifted his weight to one leg, "There is only so much that I can do from in here, lessen how much your feel it, keep the withdrawals from killing you." The angel frowned at a thought, "Although there might be someone who could heal you, but he won't exactly be easy to find, seeing as no one has heard from him in centuries."

Sam's eyes widened. "Who? A demon, and angel, what?" A flicker of hope kindled to life in Sam's chest and he took a long, deep breath. There was a way out and that was all that mattered. Between Lucifer, this stranger, and Dean, he could and would pull through. He wouldn't have to worry about keeping Michael off his back and he wouldn't be addicted to the demon blood either. If it hadn't been for Lucifer saying that the stranger would be hard to find, Sam wouldn't have believed it. It was too much good luck all at once for it to last.

"Sariel, the second angel of healing after Raphael, although some know him as Azrael, the angel of Death. And he just so happens to be one of my fallen angels." Lucifer said with a wary smile finally slipping onto his face. "I sensed his presence after you broke open the Cage, but I have no way of contacting him now."

"Angel of Death?" Sam's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "I met Death. He was one of the horsemen, not an angel, fallen or otherwise. There's another one?" He tried to picture what the angel would look like, but all his mind could come up with were grim reapers and skeletal, black wings. But like any other angel, Azrael, Sariel, whatever he was supposed to call him, needed a vessel. So Sam really had no way to put an image to the person who would hopefully be keeping him from dying of withdrawal. "I'm sure we can find some sort of ritual or another." Sam said slowly.

"Yes, an angel of death; there's actually a few of them. They're not like the reapers, because they don't deal with souls, they record the lives of men in their books of life. Sariel just so happened to have a taste for human women and was thrown out of Heaven for his... indiscretion." Lucifer explained with awry smile. "I would suggest finding him before you try to make your hex bags."

Sam blinked. He knew angels weren't all as virginal as Cas, Anna had proved that, but the idea of angel doing... that... was a bit odd. He shook himself mentally and turned back to the main issue. "So... basically. I tell Dean about this, he finds and summons Azrael, then comes back and we make the hex bag." Sam started pacing as he formulated his plan, fingers drumming idly on the side of his leg. "Then I get out of the asylum, Azrael cures me, and we figure out how to get Michael out of the way a bit more permanently."

Lucifer inclined his head slightly, "That should be enough of a plan to go off of for now, and loose enough that you can react as things happen." The fallen angel had long since stilled his pacing and he looked at Sam with a rare smile, resting his hip against the lip of the guardrail. "It's not a perfect plan, but then again, nothing is. So, tell me, now that you won't be killed by my brother anytime soon, is there anything else I can do for you?"

Sam's mouth went dry and he shook his head. "No, I..." then he smiled, "What if I wanted to do something for you?" He walked toward Lucifer slowly. "I mean, you've done so much and... I know I'm only human and all that. But there has to be something." He stopped with less than a foot of space left between them. It was still a lot for an angel, what with their tendency to forget about personal space, but it felt disproportionately close to Sam. He swallowed surreptitiously. "Is there something?"

The angel's eyes softened, their glacial blue, which was so often guarded and unfathomably deep, suddenly shone with an internal radiance, pure white specks flashing near the pupils. "Sam..." How could he explain to this beautiful being that he already did so much, that just the very act of him existing made Lucifer's life immeasurably easier to bear. However he knew Sam too well, and an answer like that wouldn't sit well with the man, he had always felt the need to _do_ things, to make up for his mistakes, to actively work on improving a situation. As such a man, that sort of answer would make him feel guilty in that flawed human logic, feel like the scales between them were imbalanced. So instead, Lucifer reached forward and laid his hand flat against Sam's chest, closing his eyes as he sensed the Soul beneath his palm. "Never betray me..." he replied in a whisper, the closest to sounding broken that the proud angel could come to.

He had been able to understand why Sam had jumped them into the Cage - been tied inextricably to Sam's heart, body, mind, and Soul - seen the love for Dean that drove Sam to be willing to spend eternity in complete isolation. Certainly there had been a portion of motivation to thwarting Lucifer himself, but it hadn't been hate that had motivated Sam then, but love, and Lucifer understood that only too well. No, if Sam was to ever betray him purposefully, now that they had been one vessel, now that Sam had entrusted his safety to Lucifer's had; that might just take the last modicum of sanity he had. And that wasn't even touching on the thought of what he would do if this ridiculously kindhearted, giant, moose ever got himself killed. But he had a feeling that asking Sam to never die might be taking things too far.

Sam covered Lucifer's hand with his own, holding tightly enough that it likely would have bruised a human. He nodded, letting out a slightly ragged breath. He understood the angel's request. They had both been turned on so many times. Michael, his father, and his brothers, had betrayed Lucifer. Sam had been tricked by demons masquerading as friends, by Ruby, by Castiel; even Dean had nearly abandoned him. He knew the feeling of being lost, of having nothing and no one to steady you while the ground came apart under your feet. He knew it hurt more than anything even Alastair could think up.

Sam realized wouldn't have seen him nod with his eyes closed. "I promise." He replied quietly. He meant it. There was no reason for him to turn on the angel, not that he could think of. And if he ever needed to, it would be because Lucifer himself had done something. He did not want to think about that, but he owed it to himself and to Dean. Even with that vague possibility, Sam was more than happy to make the promise. It felt like adding another link to whatever connection he shared with the Morning Star.

Lucifer opened his eyes and stared hard at Sam. Trust was something hard to come by for the angel. He knew that Sam's first allegiance would always be to Dean and that he would have to accept that. Sam was being honest, but Lucifer could almost feel his thoughts, a strange rippling current through the dreamscape, invisible to the naked eye. A small nod and he curled his hand into Sam's shirt, pulling Sam closer, a feral glint in his eye, "I'll hold you to that, then."

The hunter grinned, eyes dropping to Lucifer's mouth for a half a moment. His hands curled around the angel's upper arms, pulling him flush against his chest. He was privately flattered that Lucifer had allowed Sam to move him. Moving one hand up to the angel's jaw, he kissed him on the mouth, eyes tight shut. Sam's other hand tightened on his arm as a rush of heat poured through him. Lucifer's hand was trapped between them, pinned directly over his hammering heart. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the sounds of Hell. Sam barely noticed. Every one of his senses seemed to have shut down aside from touch.

But then there was always this avenue to consider; this new world of Sam kissing him, willingly, and not for some crossroads deal or Hail Mary play. And how Lucifer loved the way they fit together, Sam's taller frame bending just slightly to make contact. The pulse beneath his hand was more enticing than any siren's song as it drew Lucifer into the human's crazed rhythm. Sneaking his hand around the back of Sam's neck, he angled their heads slightly, making the kiss both more comfortable. He watched Sam intently, relishing in the sight and smell and sound of him, cataloging this moment, burning this memory into his mind, body, and soul. Against Sam's lips he murmured possessively, "MFEO, Sam. Just like I said..."

Sam chuckled at Lucifer's use of the acronym. He kissed him again without waiting for a response. The movement caused a light tug on his hair and his breath caught on the way down. His mouth opened and his tongue pressed against Lucifer's lower lip, urging him to do the same. Sam's mind reeled and his breathing hitched again. Eagerly, he slipped his tongue into the devil's mouth. He tasted like ice and providence and something Sam couldn't quite place but shot through him and sank deep into his core. he broke away gasping, leaning his forehead against Lucifer's for a moment. He opened his eyes slowly, meeting the angel's brilliant blue with his own brown. Something in his mind clicked and his eyes went wide. "Your... your Grace."

Lucifer's wings spread wide as the kiss had deepened, shimmering in all their resplendent glory in this moment of triumph; and when Sam had pulled away, ever so slightly, his wings had folded forward to encapsulate the man. The feather-light touch possessive and protective all at once. "Ah yes, it has a nasty habit of trying to reach out to you, side effect of having known you fully once." he replied in a drawl, eyes lidded dangerously as he debated how much to tell Sam. This was all so much easier before the man had said Yes, but after the sundering he simply had no idea how Sam might react to him. For his own part in the matter, when Sam had been ripped away from his Grace, it made the hole inside himself all the more apparent. But if Sam felt their separation as the same yawning chasm inside his soul, Lucifer had no way of knowing. "Does it bother you?"

Sam shook his head, "Not at all." His arms went around Lucifer's back as he kissed him again, fingers lacing through the feathers. He was careful not to tug, not sure if he would hurt the angel. Instead he worked his hands deep into the feathers, lightly massaging the joints. His mouth was flooded with the taste of Lucifer's Grace and it set his mind and skin tingling pleasantly. A quiet noise of approval pasted Sam's lips and was almost lost in the angel's mouth. Even so, it seemed embarrassingly loud. Sam felt himself flush hot against Lucifer's cooler skin. Rather than acknowledge it, he tilted his head slightly and gently caught the other man's lower lip in his teeth for a moment before breaking the kiss.

Having kept his eyes open this entire time, Lucifer noticed the slight shimmer to the air and the spots of absolute void that were appearing in the distant gloom. It looked like their moment was to be cut short. Sighing somewhat playfully against Sam's lips, he pulled back slightly. "Well, looks like someone is just about to wake up." he said in a sultry voice, before he laughed darkly and added, "Not trying to run away, are we Sammy?" Running a hand through his short hair, he tried to let his frustration bleed out of him. As powerful as he may be, he sadly had no control over the whims of Sam's REM cycle. And wasn't that a pity?

"Dammit." Sam muttered. He had time to give Lucifer one last, searing kiss before the dreamscape fell apart around them. When Sam woke up, he was breathing hard and every inch of his skin felt too warm. Not fever-warn, thankfully, just warm. Sighing, he tried to sit up only to be stopped about half way by the restraints. Sam shook his hair out of his eyes and collapsed back onto the thin pillow, trying to make himself more comfortable. A few moments later and the plainly terrified nurse came in, carrying a tray. She set it down on the desk and pulled both over to the cot. Then she undid the restraints on Sam's wrists, careful not to touch him at all, before baking into a corner. The moment he was done, she refastened the cuffs, took the tray, and left. She had not looked at him directly or spoken to him at all in that entire time.

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**A/N:** Thank you all so much for being so patient! THings got sorta bogged down and all that... so I gave you Samifer kisses. And we are working on the next chapter. Hopefully it will be up in a somewhat reasonable amount of time.


	7. Chapter 7: Angelis Mortis

**_Chapter Seven: Angelis Mortis_**

_"The angel of death has been abroad throughout the land, you may almost hear the beating of his wings"- John Bright_

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"And you thought this was going to be a suitable plan?" Dean practically yelled, only able to keep the volume from his voice by sheer force of will and the understanding that it would draw too much attention, however all of the condescension was still there. "You tell me that you're talking with Satan, fine I trust you. You tell me that he's been saving your life and is suddenly your best friend. Fine. I trust you, still want to gank him, but I trust you. But this?" Dean's eyes had narrowed to slits as spoke, and he took two steps forward and grabbed Sam's shoulders harshly, giving the younger man a powerful shake. "Do you even hear yourself, Sammy? Let's remember all the times that demon blood has gotten you into trouble. Oh right, every time."

Letting go of Sam, he held his hands up in surrender, but the strain showing in the muscles made it clear that he was only holding them like that to keep from beating sense into Sam. "Just... let me get this straight. Supposedly, there's another angel who might be able to heal you after you down all the demon blood, that about sum up the new plan?"

Sam grimaced, shoulders jerking up and forward in an approximation of a shrug. "Dean, I'm about as happy about this as you are. Less." He sank back onto the cot and dropped his head into his hands, not trusting his legs to hold him. It also served as an excuse not to look at his brother.

When Sam had told him the plan, Dean's face had gone from shocked, to disgusted, to furious in the space of a few heartbeats. Words spoken to him nearly three years ago rang in his mind. Monster, freak, you walk out that door don't you ever come back. When he looked up again he had a lump in his throat and a desperate look in his eyes. "We don't have a choice. We just... we summon Azrael first and if it turns out that it won't work... then we'll figure it out." After a moment, he added, "Please?" his voice barely louder than a whisper.

Dean ran a hand over his face, still obstinately opposed to the plan, but finding this angel didn't sound as dangerous as letting Sam go off half cocked and downing the blood without a safety net. Of course, there was the possibility that this angel was working for Satan, in which case this was probably the worst move they could make. He looked at Sam and noticed how tired his little brother really was. Sure, Satan was supposedly helping him where he could, but his little Sammy had still been through the ringer; and same as always, he was trying to hide it. Sighing, he cleared the table of the small tray of food that had been left there and motioned for Sam to join him.

"Alright... so we need to summon this angel, right? The all knowing Satan give you a magic fix for that too? Or do I need to go get supplies from the car and hope we summon the right angel?"

"Give me a few seconds..." Sam closed his eyes.

Praying, especially to Lucifer, with Dean in the room was not high on his list of things he wanted to do. However, it was necessary. "Hey... Um. So I forgot something kinda important last time... How do we summon Sariel? Do I just... Call? Or what?" He cracked an eye open while he waited for a response and peaked at Dean. "Er... Yeah. I mentioned the praying thing, right? It's sorta... the... only decent way to communicate. It's not like he can just send a postcard." Sam tried for a light tone and failed miserably. Just as Dean was opening his mouth to reply, the angel's voice in his head caught his attention. He closed his eyes and held up a hand in a way that he hoped came across as "wait please this is urgent, thanks" and not "shuttup I'm talking to Satan".

Dean had once been told by Castiel that being prayed to is a very powerful feeling for an angel, emboldening and very nearly a justification for their existence. He had prayed out of desperation more than once for Castiel, hell, for any angel to save him or Sam, but felt some pleasure in knowing it was always grudgingly offered. For Sam to pray, willingly, for something like this... did Sam know what a monumental thing prayer was for an angel? Cas's words rang through his head, "For an angel like myself, who is not often considered a patron for the saints or widely known amongst the humans, I might receive a prayer once or twice a decade. I can perfectly recall each prayer, Dean. They are like the purest pearls that the human Soul can devise, especially when meant for others. It fills an angel with purpose, with an overarching sense of... pride, if I can so crudely translate the Enochian. Perhaps angels like Michael who are well known and respected would no longer marvel at each prayer, but..." He had let his words hang in the air, the sentiment obvious.

Did Lucifer feel that way for prayers he received from Sam? The thought made something deep inside Dean's heart freeze cold. And he would have spoken out against this, or explained it, or something, when Sam motioned for his silence.

"Ah, Sammy, so nice of you to call..." Came the barest whisper in the corners of Sam's mind, echoing as if it had come from several directions at once, and yet originated from nowhere at all. The next words of flowing Latin seemed to blaze in Sam's mind eye, pale and powerful.

"That's it?" Sam asked. When he received confirmation that, yes, it was actually that simple, he thanked the angel before opening his eyes and reciting the short phrase. "In nomine filli, vocat te",in the name of the Son I call you. "In nomine patris, te voco", in the name of the Father, I call you. "In nomine spiritus sancti vocation te", in the name of the Holy Ghost, I call you. "Azrael, angeli mortis, custos librorum, I vocare te hic arcesse." Azrael, angel of death, keeper of the books, I summon you here.

As the last words left his mouth a ripple of pure power radiated out from Sam and disappeared. Barely a second later, every light in the room went out. The light from the hallway illuminated a square foot of floor, and the figure standing in it. She was petite- short, really- with dark skin and large brown eyes. Her hair, trimmed so it fell barely past her jaw line, was mussed and there was a smudge of lipstick on her left collarbone.

Azrael straightened her shirt, brushed down her hair absently, then looked up. "You know, not a single story I've heard about the Winchester brothers has mentioned your perfect timing."

Dean had to admit, when Sam told him that they were going to try and summon the Angel of Death, or whatever, that the small woman standing in front of them rather failed to live up to his expectations. Of course, he'd met enough of the winged pricks to know that their human vessels had no correspondence with their power or their capability for dickishness, but still. Once his mind stopped tripping over the disparity of her appearance with his half formed expectations, he took a moment to take in her actual appearance; which combined with her comment caused a broad smirk to form on his face. "Interrupted something, did we?"

His comment prompted a look from his brother that he easily read as, 'Really Dean? We're hoping to ask this angel to purge me of demon blood and you're antagonizing her?' It was almost magical how easily the brothers could communicate through significant glances and quirked smiles. Dean shot back a half apologetic smile and a quirked eyebrow. Come on, how was he not supposed to take that bait? It was too easy...

One of Azrael's eyebrows lifted toward her hairline. "Well, Dean, you've been around the block a few dozen times. Try using your brain and answer that for yourself." Absently, she rubbed at the lipstick mark, somehow managing to take it off rather than just swear it around. Angel powers, most likely. "You two must have had a reason for calling me and I can't even decide if I want to help you until you tell me, so..." She gave Sam an expectant look.

He cleared his throat nervously. "I... We... Have to do this spell, and to do it, I need to drink... Well, a lot of demon blood. And I was wondering if-"

She cut him off. "If I could take it out of your system when you're done." She nodded. "My brother likes you, even if you threw him back into the pit. And you threw Michael in there with him. I like that. And after what Castiel did..." Azrael nodded slowly. "Yes, I will help you. It isn't like I have anything better to do today." She stared straight at Dean. "Notice I said anything. Make sure this doesn't take all day."

Dean's only response to her chastisement was a rueful grin. The last thing he wanted to do was mess this up for Sammy, so he was going to play a lot nicer than normal. Unconsciously his body posture shifted lower, balanced the weight more fully in the middle, on the balls of his feet, ready at a moments notice to get in between this sardonic angel and his brother if anything went wrong. Because something always went wrong. But he wasn't going to be the cause of it, no, not this time. So he remained where he was and he didn't sass off and he felt just the smallest bit annoyed at how Sam's voice halted and started, because his brother should stop having to be afraid of these things and explain them and apologize for it all. But damn it, Sammy, just hold your head high and don't give anyone any quarter, you're better than you let yourself believe.

"Dean, I'm going to take a wild guess and say that you do not have two gallons of demon's blood in the trunk of that pretty car of yours. So, you go and get some and when you come back, the three of us will be ready to start on the ritual." Seeing Sam's mildly flabbergasted expression, she explained. "I can see souls and I can see Michael's fingerprints all over yours. I know what he's doing and I know what you need to do to get him off you."

Sam crossed his arms over his chest instinctively. "Alright. Aside from the demon blood, what do we need?" She gave him a look that bordered on respect. "You adjust quickly, don't you. We need angelica, balm of gilead, benzoin, bindweed, and frankincense oil. Rue if you can get it. Also a piece of obsidian or smokey quartz. They aren't the traditional indregients, but it should be stronger. None of that should be too incredibly difficult to get, and I can help if you need me to." Azrael waited a few moments before quirking the eyebrow again. "What are you waiting for, Dean?"

Narrowing his eyes, Dean had to fight down the urge to bristle at Azrael's demeanor. He'd never liked being told what to do and this angel was just pushing all of his buttons, each one in succession. "Right, I'll just go visit the magical supermarket for witches, sages, and angel slaying heroes. Right on that." Resting the weight on one hip he looked over at Sam, silently asking if he was sure they could trust this upstart of an angel, because as much as he hated being ordered around, he hated the thought of leaving Sam alone.

"Touchy, touchy." She laughed. "But, I see your point." Azrael walked over to the table and held out her hands. "I hate doing this, it makes me feel sick." A few moments later, a collection of jars appeared on the plastic surface.

Sam made a face somewhere between surprised and impressed. "Handy trick."

She glared at him. "That was no trick, mortal. It is something reserved for archangels. And my particular skills don't go very well with conjuring." She sat down on the cot, rubbing her forehead. "There's nothing I can do about the demon blood, so that is still up to you, Dean, my darling. I'll keep your baby brother safe while you drain a few."

Dean was almost ready to half-way grudgingly thank her for the supplies when she had to go and open her mouth again. Deciding he wouldn't be so childish as to throw his hands in the air, he settled on sending her a withering gaze and turning on his heel. As he put his hand on the door handle he called back to Sam, "Be back soon..." Then he recomposed his priest alias and stepped out of the room. The one nurse who he met in the hall was given instructions to tell the head of staff that he would be back shortly and needed to gather additional supplies for the exorcism.

As he exited the building, pulling off the small white tab of the priest collar and loosening his shirt, all he could think was, 'Dicks. They really all are a great big bag of dicks!' It wouldn't be an overstatement to say that when this was over, Dean would be happy to never have to deal with the feathered host ever again.

* * *

Sam discovered that watching an angel roll their eyes- especially to the extent Azrael did, where they practically rolled back in her head- was never not going to be very, very strange. She rubbed her forehead again and closed her eyes for a moment.

"Are you.. okay?" He asked, tilting his head slightly in an attempt to look her in the eyes.

She chuckled dryly and looked at him sideways. "You mean, am I strong enough to take two gallons of demon blood out of your system? Yes. Although..." Her sarcastic attitude dropped. "You are not going to like it. It will hurt like hell, and I do mean that literally. But you won't die and there will be no permanent damage."

"How are you even going to do that?" Sam's eyebrows drew together.

Azrael met his eyes squarely. "We will save that discussion for later. After the ritual and after your sweetheart of a brother gets back."

Sam sighed. "He really isn't that bad."

She didn't look like she believed him.

* * *

Dean was finding the fact that Crowley had ordered a "No Attacking the Winchesters" order a bit of an annoyance. Yeah, they were all working to take down Leviathan right now, but damn it! He needed some demons to attack him to get that damn demon blood. Ok, he could also really just use an excuse to attack things and get some frustration out, but you can't really blame a man for looking at the silver lining, now could you? Finally he found a group of them milling about a gas station convenience store of all places. Well, beggars can't be choosers.

The fight was not a long one. He had caught the demons off guard and he had caught one and pinned it through the chest to the brick wall behind it- not with Ruby's knife since that probably would have made the entire mess completely pointless- before the other two even noticed him. One after another, he slit their throats and collected the blood. It was more than they needed, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Dean loaded the sloshing gallon containers into the trunk of the impala, trying not to think about what he was putting in his baby, and drove off. Once back at the hospital, he climbed out, grabbed the containers, and walked down the hall, trying very hard not to look like he was carrying demon blood to the room of a supposedly possessed patient. Yup, nothing to see here.

Sam stood up the moment the door opened, eyes dropping to the red liquid. He swallowed, mouth and throat suddenly dry. "So that's it then?"

Azrael stopped him with a hand on his arm just before he reached for one. "We do the signs and as much of the preparation as is possible, first. Then you drink. Then spell. And then I can get you clean. The less time this is in you, the better."

Dean held onto the jugs and held his facial expression as neutral as he could, however once Azrael finished her short walk through of events, he turned to her and gave her a thankful nod. He might not like her style, angels in general, but he wasn't such an ingrate as to not appreciate the fact that she was helping them, helping Sam. He placed the jugs down on the table and turned to make certain the door was locked, even though he had informed the staff that there was to be no interruptions today. "Alright, looks like we're as ready as we'll ever be." This had better work, because Dean knew he couldn't walk out those doors without his little brother, not again. "Anything specific you need me to do while you're workin' your hoodoo magic?"

Sam looked over at Azrael, then shook his head. "Not really. Just have the blood ready to go." He picked up a small can of paint and a brush and set to work on drawing the sign of Saturn on the tile floor. It was easy enough, simply a fancy "h" with a crossbar through the stem. Then he set the jars of herbs just under the arch of the symbol and stopped.

"I take it you forgot to ask for more specific instructions?" Azrael asked coolly, leaning against the door. Sam nodded somewhat sheepishly. She sighed and knelt across from him, spreading a square of cloth out between them. "Then it is a good thing I'm here, isn't it?" Following her instructions, Sam put one generous pinch each of angelica and balm of gilead, followed by three drops of Frankincense oil. That was where she stopped him. "Samuel. It's time."

Slowly, he took the containers of demon blood from Dean, feeling his stomach twist and roll. He took a deep breath, swallowed, raised the first container to his mouth and then- put it back down. "Dean... Don't watch." He rasped. Without waiting to see if he ahead complied, Sam tipped the bottle back and began to drink. It was burning hot and thick, coating the inside of his throat and his stomach and filling its veins with warmth. After the first cup or so, the copper tang was barely noticeable, replaced by something bitter and charred tasting. It should have been nauseating, it would have been easier if it had been, but Sam drank it easily. When he was done, he was calm, and his eyes were three shades darker. Three shades closer to black.

Dean told himself he should listen to Sam, honor his wishes, but he simply couldn't wrench his eyes from the loathsome tableau in front of him. There was the initial repulsion from his brother, obvious in the lines of his body and the set of his jaw, a sort of determination to do this; but all too quickly he saw that replaced by the hunger. Sam was downing the viscous liquid with an insatiable desire, like some drug addict who had been managing to get by on methadone and finds himself offered a pure dose of heroin, that awful mistress of temptation singing sweetly in his veins, killing him from the inside out. Dean had never asked, he'd never broached the subject of how Sam had managed to get his addiction under wraps; wasn't sure if it was pure will, or if he was popping pills instead, maybe he drank while Dean was out, or sat and watched the television with a phantom itch coursing through his blood. Maybe heaven cut them a break and took away the symptoms without curing this godawful disease. Whatever it was, he could only pray that when Azrael got it out of his system, the hunger would go with it.

"Sam." Azrael said slowly, staring at the hunter with an expression that could almost be described as concerned. "Sam, we need to finish the ritual as quickly as possible."

He nodded, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth. "What next?" She indicated the benzoin and he added that to the pile on the cloth, followed by rue and bindweed. A small piece of obsidian, blacker than a demon's eyes, rested in the center of the mound of herbs. Wordlessly, Azrael gave Sam the knife he had hidden under his pillow. He cut his palm and allowed dark drops to fall onto the stone until she gingerly pushed his hand aside.

"Sam?" He looked at the angel, head cocked slightly to one side. "The incantation is in Enochian, so I need you to listen very carefully." She spoke the spell line by line and Sam repeated them carefully. He called on the herbs, on the power in his blood, and on Saturn to hold off Michael. When he said the last word of the spell, the obsidian flared purple before fading back to its original color.

Azrael moved to sit on the cot and Sam followed her. "Dean, get that tied off. There's black thread on the table. I need to get your brother back to normal."

With the bulk of the ritual over, Dean let out a small sigh of relief, however he knew that the angel still needed to clean Sam up. At least stitching up these hex bags would help him focus on something other than the mounting worry in the back of his mind. He didn't trust angels, not after everything he'd seen from them, and having to trust Azrael was taking everything he had. Picking up the needle and thread, he started in on the specific stitching that hex bags always required, with their intricate knotting and doubling back. However, try as he might, he couldn't help his eyes from drifting back to his brother and the real danger at hand. He really hated stitching anyways.

Carefully, Azrael turned Sam's face toward her and leaned forward. His eyes flew wide in shock. This was... Wrong. He didn't exactly know what to call the relationship he had with Lucifer, but it was a relationship. He shook himself mentally. She didn't mean it as anything more than part of the ritual, he was certain.

However, she had noticed his hesitation, Azrael shifted closer, arching one eyebrow. "What's wrong Sam?" She tilted her head, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Would you rather I looked like someone else? I can change if you want."

The realization hit Sam like a bucket of ice water. She knew.

He barely had time to process the new information before she kissed him. White light poured into him, filling his skull and and pushing against the backs of his eyes. It hovered there for a moment, making his ears pop as if he were on a plane, before rushing through his bloodstream. Then he was flooded with light that burned and chased patches of black smoke and burned away shadows until there was nowhere for them to hide and he was left raw and empty and completely normal. The light had left spots on his vision and when he looked at Azrael, he could have sworn she was surrounded by purple-black feathers that chimed and sliced the air like shattered amethysts.

Sam's vision returned to normal a moment later. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, then stood up slowly. "Thank you."

Azrael smiled at him and he was reminded again of what she knew. "I would say you are welcome, but that would give you the impression that what I did wasn't hard work. You can thank me later, Dean."

Dean was staring so hard that when Azrael talked to him he blinked and had to take a minute before he could respond, and even then it's a bit distant, "Yeah, you'll be waiting awhile on that."

He had spent his entire life watching over Sammy, learning the boy's tells, studying how he acts when he was falling for some cute chick. He knew every one of his idiosyncrasies, every habit, every inflection. So when Azrael said that bit about looking like someone else, it all clicked into place. And the realization of what he's suspecting from his brother hurts worse than the idea itself. Of course he shouldn't have felt as sure of it as he did, but it all fit; Sam's insistence that Lucifer wouldn't lie to him, his almost coy way that he mentions the dreams, the uncomfortable air he had about praying with Dean in the room.

Damn it! His little Sammy did NOT have a thing for Satan! He can't. That's... that's... just no.

Sam couldn't look at his brother, not now, not after what Azrael had said and how he had reacted. He knew, he just knew that Dean had guessed. It would have been uncomfortable enough if Dean had accidentally found out that Sam was apparently bisexual... Or whatever the term was. But no, Dean had to find out that he was falling for Lucifer. Really, anyone would have been better than that. Anyone. Still staring at the floor, Sam scooped up the hex bag. "Thanks, Dean." He started toward the door and was almost walking out into the empty hall when he noticed Dean wasn't following him. Slowly, he turned around and met his brother's eyes. "Um..."

Azrael looked from one of them to the other. "I'll just leave you two alone then. Call me if you need anything. Well don't, but you get the idea." She bowed once, smiled, then vanished, accompanied by the sound of wings.

* * *

**A/N: Again, sorry about the wait.**


	8. Chapter 8: Rue

**_Chapter Eight: Rue_**

_Rue- remorse or regret in the language of flowers_

* * *

"Let's just get out of here..." Dean stood, and its awkward and stiff and altogether too formal, even after the angel leaves. Gathering up the emptied jugs and the general mess, he breezed past Sam in a sort of cold war tension, all silence and edges. He kept quiet for the entirety of time that it took them to leave the asylum, not bothering to check his brother out or continue the facade, just walks right out past lax security.

It was only when he got to the Impala, his baby, and dumps the crap into her trunk, that he let out the breath he he hadn't realized he'd been holding this entire time. Slipping around and into the drivers seat, he placed his hands on the wheel at ten and two and stares out at the parking lot for a long moment; until he heard his brother sit down and take in that awkward breath that he always does before trying to talk about stupid things like feelings or where their life is going or how he doesn't want to keep hunting for the rest of his life. Dean simply turned on the radio to a dull roar and turned the key in the ignition. Then there was only the screech of tires and the crunch of gravel and then the gentle rhythm of passing mile markers on the open road.

Sam sighed and leaned against the window. He knew he should explain everything now, before Dean got too many wrong ideas about what was happening. Or before he got to many of the right ones. But Sam just could not make himself do it. His mouth still tasted like Demon blood, and his head was pounding from whatever the hell Azrael had done, and this was the first time in what felt like forever that he was outside. Michael was off his back, he was out of the mental hospital, and he had his brother back. Yes, that brother has probably going to be furious with him when they finally did talk, but he still had him back.

Cautiously, he looked over at Dean. He was nodding along with the music, eye locked firmly on the road ahead of them. As usual, he was driving over the speed limit. Sam cleared his throat. "Hey, Dean? I just wanted to say thanks."

His answering smile was tight lipped and came nowhere near to reaching his eyes. "That's what brothers do, isn't that right Sammy?"

Sam nodded, feeling his stomach plummet to the bottom of his shoes. First stop, he promised himself, first stop we'll talk.

* * *

Dean drove for hours, silence reigning with an iron fist. Whenever it looked like he might turn off the highway for the night, he would look over and check if Sam was still awake. He knew this probably wasn't the best way to deal with all of this, but he knew that if he let Sam bring it up right now anything that came out of his mouth would be bitter and aimed to hurt Sam. Because after everything that they had been through, all the schemes of demons and Ruby and the entire Apocalypse, Sam hadn't learned a thing. He was still the same idiot who acted without thinking and fell in love with monsters; and Lucifer was the biggest monster of them all.

Only two hours before dawn, he finally decided to just pull the car over and sleep on the side of the road, too far from any hotels make driving further worth it. He turned off Baby and listened to the small sounds of her engine cooling in the evening chill, crickets providing a background chorus.

Sam sat up as the car turned off the road, blinking drowsily. "We're stopping?" It was the first time either of them had spoken in hours and his voice was dry. He coughed, cleared his throat, then tried again. "Dean, we really should talk about... You know." His brother didn't respond. Sam sighed and settled down in his seat again, turning to face the window. "Well, goodnight."

Sam fell asleep with surprising ease, giving the fact that Dean was only a foot or so away and still angry at him. He appeared in Pandemonium at the top of the stairs to the tower. Without bothering to knock of give any other indication he had arrived, he opened the door and walked out onto the balcony. When he saw Lucifer, his mouth curved up involuntarily, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hey." Sam leaned on the railing next to him, staring out over the city. "We did the ritual and since I haven't seen Michael and we've left the mental hospital, I'm guessing it worked. Thank you."

Lucifer had sensed Sam when he first entered the dreamscape, but he remained entranced by his view of Pandemonium. When he turned he sensed the great sadness in Sam's eyes and Soul that did not match up with what he was saying. Inclining his head as acknowledgment of Sam's appreciation of his contribution to his continued safety, he turned around fully and placed a hand on Sam's upper arm. "Sam? What's wrong?" He could have parted through the shifting thoughts that shimmered on the air, invisible and electric, and found what seemed to be the problem but he assumed it would be more cathartic for the young man to explain the situation out loud.

Sam's shoulders slumped and he let out a long, shaking breath. "Dean... he found out that I... that we... He knows and he isn't taking it well and he won't let me talk to him. I just- and even if he would, what the hell do I say to him?" He looked up, meeting Lucifer's eyes. "I... You're Lucifer. I know what you're like, but he doesn't and he thinks it's just like Ruby all over again." He almost spat the name, wanting it out of his mouth and his mind as quickly as possible. "And I like- more than like- being with you. But I never wanted to see him look at me like that again. And the demon blood sure didn't help..." Sam trailed off, shaking his head. "I'm sorry... I shouldn't be... no." He raked his hair back, taking another deep breath. "I just can't catch a break, can I?"

The fallen angel sighed and materialized a stool, motioning for Sam to sit while he leaned against the railing. "Oh Sam, I am sorry that it's taken this turn, but you know as well as I do that he would have found out sooner or later. And given what I know of you two," he tapped his head, signalling that he had seen Sam's memories and understood the brothers' relationship perfectly, "he would never have been happy to hear about this. Now certainly, he may have been more receptive if you told him yourself, but really? I doubt it. Older brothers tend to think they're right, think they understand everything." Lucifer walked forward and pulled Sam's head against his chest, stroking his hair softly. "You do not deserve such a life Sam, but even though you've changed Heaven's plan for you, I don't believe it will get better." Leaning down he placed a soft kiss on the crown of Sam's head, "But you can rest assured that I will always be here for you, for whatever solace an angel trapped in the depths of hell can offer you."

Sam closed his eyes, letting himself lean into the angel. "Thank you." He raised his head and when he looked at Lucifer, it was in the same way he had looked at Jess years ago. If he had known it, he would have blushed and looked away, brain whirring and clicking and trying to make sense of the mess of emotions sitting in his chest. However, he didn't, and so Sam was able to allow everything he felt to wash over him. He felt himself smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, and stood up. Then he wrapped both arms around the angel and held on, head resting on his shoulder. "You're right. He won't want to listen. But it isn't really his decision what I do, who I'm with... any of it." He let out a dry chuckle, "Well, as long as I don't re-start the apocalypse or something. No offense intended."

Lucifer chuckled a little, his chest vibrating against Sam's with the sound, "None taken. I still would prefer to decimate the entire human race, but we don't always get what we want. And in the end, I would much rather have you than revenge." That was a little bit of a white lie, really Lucifer wanted the same thing as before, he wanted to stand and watch the world burn as he protected Sam for the rest of eternity. He wanted the closeness that being one with his vessel truly brought. But there was no chance that he would tell Sam this, and perhaps that was a lie of omission, but he knew Sam too well to think they would ever see eye to eye on that point. So instead he would soothe the man's fears as best he could and curse humanity all the more the day Sam Winchester died.

Sam gave him a slightly disbelieving look but said nothing, content to take peace where he could find it. He had no illusions about what he would get back in the real world, from Dean, from life, from Azrael... He pulled back slightly, one eyebrow slightly lifted. "Did you not tell us what Azrael is like because you forgot, or because you didn't want me to warn Dean? She honestly spent the entire time ripping into him." Sam chuckled, only feeling slightly guilty for it. It helped that he was still frustrated with his mule-brained brother.

A coy smile played in the shadows of Lucifer's lips, a ghost that was careful to show itself. "No, I only remember him from Heaven. What happened exactly?" If all his time with the humans had not changed him, then it was understandable how Azrael would have a problem with macho, blusterous Dean. Two alpha personalities can only share the same space for so long before conflict is bound to happen.

"I have never seen someone insult Dean so thoroughly in my life!" Sam ducked his head, shoulders shaking with laughter. "I think he got one comment in, except that one got thrown back in his face." He carefully composed himself, although he could not suppress the smile that threatened to split his face. "I mean, I knew some angels have a sense of humor, or whatever you want to call it. But she- should I be calling Azrael a she if her vessel is a girl?- Well, she outdid Balthazar."  
"Gender is a very fluid thing for angels." Lucifer replied enigmatically, not quite caring to go into that matter now, as then Sam would realized that the form he saw before him was only a construct made to put him more at ease; and knowing Sam, he'd want to see Lucifer's true form, and Lucifer wasn't sure what that would do to him, even in this dreamscape. "And yes, Azrael was always known for his... her barbed tongue. It made for quite an entertaining show, watching Azrael tongue lash other angels who had so little personality that they could not quite understand what she was saying. And, she has lived with humans for a very long time, longer than Balthazar or even Gabriel, so it stands to reason that she would be the most... acclimated?" Perhaps that was not the word he was looking for, but it served well enough.  
"Right..." Sam nodded slowly, giving Lucifer a considering look. He opened his mouth to say something else, changed his mind, closed it again, then continued. "So... if you don't mind. What was it like... before. I know it's a touchy subject and if you don't want to talk about it it's fine. But if you do... I'd love to hear about it."******  
**

And then there was that word. Four letters, one syllable, and far too much meaning. But he'd said it and there were times going back years when he should have said it and he hadn't and then here, with Lucifer, it had just slipped out. Sam decided quickly that he was overanalyzing and returned his attention to the angel in front of him.

"Heaven?" The word came out like a whispered prayer from Lucifer's lips, something too precious for this world. It was the same tone of voice that he used to direct his adoration to Sam, although the other man had never been awake to hear it. "Heaven was... refulgent. There was a light that cast no true shadows, more of a warmth really, that surrounded and supported everything. But for all of the splendor of the city and the oceans of glass and gold laden streets, those we could recreate here. No, what separates Heaven from any of the other realms was God, his presence. In the beginning, it was a perfect communion, each angel knew their place in it, felt themselves intrinsically woven into the fabric of it. You knew the minds of your companions and all were... at peace."******  
**

"The human mind has so limited an understanding of love and sanctuary, that I doubt such a description would entice them. We flew before the throne of God and sang praise, for every molecule inside us was deliriously happy. And when we fell, we lost that connection, to Him and each other..." Lucifer placed a kiss on Sam's neck, as if to steady himself that he was no longer alone. "We could no longer hear each other, the words yes, but that is limited a medium for thought. We could no longer feel or see or understand the world around us as we once had. That... that is what Heaven was like. A perfection so complete, so whole, that there are no words that can describe it."

"Like when..." Sam swallowed hard, wrapping his arms more firmly around the fallen angel. "Like when I was your vessel." It came out as an almost inaudible whisper. "I could feel everything and... you were so... so happy. That's not the right word, but..." His shoulders hitched up in an uneven shrug as he struggled with the memory. For him, having Lucifer in his head, controlling him, had been terrifying and sickening. But the second was only true for one reason; he had felt so perfectly complete and to feel like that because of Lucifer had made him feel so guilty, so disgusted with himself that it almost took away the joy. But none of that would convince him to repeat the experience, even if it had felt like... well, Heaven. Sam swallowed, gently kissing the angel's forehead. "I took that from you again, didn't I?" Part of him wanted to apologize, but not enough to actually make him say the words. So he tried to express everything that was churning in his head and heart without speaking, and he thought he might understand why losing his connection was so painful.  
Sam's words hit Lucifer like a hot iron to an exposed nerve, and it was by sheer force of will alone that he didn't shrink back, away from this most treacherous of beings who could still hurt him where all others failed. Instead he closed his eyes and just breathed. "Yes... you did." Who was he kidding? Sam was only a human, one tiny insignificant human, and not a replacement for the Host, not the balm for a broken soul. And perhaps it was petty, but there was a fractured part of his mind that hated Sam as much as he loved him. There was a portion of his Grace that wailed for vengeance and retribution.******  
**

Lucifer honestly did not want to talk about this, not when he knew the answer would never change, not when he knew his fate was to remained captive in the cage, perfectly isolated from everyone and everything. And so why torture himself more fully by playing at love with this deliriously perfect, flawed creature? Why draw out that pain again and again and again? Suddenly, as swiftly as a candle going out, Lucifer was gone, with only a gentle chill to the air to attest to his presence at all.

Sam stumbled, eyes going wide. "Lucifer?!" He wheeled around, trying to find some sign that the angel was still there and failing. "Lucifer... I'm sorry. I didn't realize. Where are you?" There was no response. Soon, even the chill Lucifer had left in his wake was gone, replaced by the oppressive heat of the Pit. Sam stopped shouting and sank back against the railing, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry."******  
**

When it became clear to him that Lucifer was not coming back, Sam tried and failed to wake himself up. "Funny." He muttered. "First a hallucination of the guy keeps you from sleeping, and now you can't wake up." Sam trudged down the stairs to the library and threw himself into a seat. There were paper, quills, and ink on the desk in front of him. "Note?" Sam picked up one of the quills and tapped it on his chin. Then he dipped it in the ink and started writing.

Lucifer, I promise that I never meant to hurt you. I just-

He scratched it out and started again.

Lucifer, when I mentioned the time when I was your vessel, I wanted to-

Sam snarled, balled up the paper, and threw it across the room. It wasn't working! Abandoning his notes where they lay on the floor, he chose a book and read until the dreamscape came apart around him and he woke up in the impala with a crick in his neck and Dean snoring next to him.

* * *

Dean came awake a few minutes later, a change from sleeping to consciousness that was like a switch flipping. He didn't move, didn't signal his waking, just slid his eyelids open and looked over at Sam without making a sound. When he noticed the odd atmosphere hanging about Sam, he was instantly worried. He knew the hex bags were on them, so he didn't think it was because of Michael, but who was he kidding? These little things were from Lucifer so of course they could be faulty, or hell, maybe even beacons for Michael to find Sam even faster. Fighting down his sudden inner turmoil, he sat up and stared at Sam, eyes flashing in the starlight. "Sammy?" His voice coming out husky from sleep, so he coughed and tried again, "Sammy, what's wrong?"

Sam shook his head, opened the door, and got out to stretch his legs. "Nothing you want to talk about." Sam reached up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "I... sorry. I saw Lucifer again. That's all. We... we argued. I screwed up and he vanished."

Turning around to face his brother, he held up both hands defensively. "Like I said, I don't think this is something you really want to talk about." Then he stalked over to a fallen tree and sat down, head in his hands and his elbows propped on his knees. "I feel like I'm in junior high all over again. Except then, it wasn't the devil I was ranting about."

Dean hauled himself out of the Impala and stalked over to where Sam was, "Sammy," he started and then sighed, rubbing a hand over tired eyes. "I know you're not a kid anymore, so I'm trying not to treat you like one, but... You're telling me that you're, what, falling for Lucifer? Never mind all the other reasons this is crazy, you realize you're setting yourself up to get hurt, right? He's in the cage, Sam. We put him there." He got down next to Sam and rested his arms on his knees, "You remember that old man we found back in Centralia? Locked in his house, decaying from the inside out because he'd fallen in love with a ghost..."

There was a moment of silence and Dean's face was unreadable with the light from the moon behind him painting him in silhouette. "So forgetting that this is Lucifer who wanted, wants, to destroy the entire human race. Forgetting that, you think I can be happy about you falling in love with someone in your dreams? How is that any different than seeing a hallucination of him, Sammy?" A rough, calloused hand gripped Sam's shoulder, as he struggled to keep his words somewhat pleasant. He wanted to rail about how Sam was off the reservation once again, about how nothing good would ever come from this, but they'd played out that scenario before and it hadn't worked then. It wouldn't work now.

"Believe me, Dean. I know I'm an idiot. I know that this- Hell. My entire life just one big freak show anyway, so why bother?!" It was as if the words had broken some dam he'd kept buried and bricked up for years. Now everything he had locked behind it was spilling out and he couldn't have stopped it if he wanted to. "I mean. I was going to marry Jess, settle down. Dammit, I had the ring picked out and everything! But then... then she died and I just gave up for a while. And now every time I think maybe I have a shot of getting a normal life, something happens and everything blows up in our faces. So if I can't have normal, what's left? Why not fall in love with Lucifer? The worst happened already." He got up, pushing easily past Dean. "Why the hell not. The side show freak with demon blood and the devil, perfect match! Literally made for each other, since I'm his goddamn vessel and all. Why should I even try anymore?" Sam's eyes welled up and spilled over, hot tracts of salt water sliding down his cheeks and splashing the collar of his shirt. "Cause I can't think of a reason."  
Dean listened to Sam's tirade with growing anger, not at Sam but at God, their lives, their father. He had pushed himself up, standing in the darkness, watching his brother break a little more, and that anger just kept coming, waves of it crashing over him. He was next to Sam in an instant, landing a punch to his face, not as hard as he could have, but hard enough to land the man on his knees. And then Dean was down at his side, pulling him into a warm embrace, "Sammy, you son of a bitch, don't you dare talk like that. You are NOT just the boy with the demon blood, and you are NOT the sum of your mistakes. Damn it. If that was true, do you think I'd still be here, pulling you up and cleaning you off and putting you back on the horse every time?"

"No, listen, you deserve a good life as much as anyone else. Hell, I do too, but we're Winchesters, which generally means we have to fight a whole hell of alot harder than everyone else to get it." He pulled back and held Sam's head in his hands, thumbs wiping away the wet patches of tear, "We're going to make it through this crisis, and the next one, and the next one. So don't you dare talk like that, don't you dare give up on me, Sammy."

"I just don't know what to do." The words came out in a hoarse whisper, a sharp contrast to his shouted speech. He grabbed Dean in a hug and held on, burying his face in Dean's shoulder as he let the waves of anger and frustration and confusion and whatever the hell he was supposed to call the emotions that had been weighing him down just pour out. He was getting Dean's jacket wet and he really, really hoped his nose wasn't running because Dean really loved that jacket... and then he was crying again because he just couldn't stop and he couldn't hang on to any of it for one more moment and he was just so tired.

When he finally calmed down, he sat back and wiped his face with the back of his hand, sniffing quietly. Then he hugged Dean again and got shakily to his feet. "What do you say I get changed and we grab some breakfast?" And that was the end of the discussion, because that was how they handled things. They talked, they shouted, then they pretended none it had ever happened in the first place.

Mmmm." Dean replied, raising and walking over to the car, glad that their chick flick seemed to be over. He was still tired to be honest, but the prospect of a warm breakfast somewhere and coffee was enough motivation to get him going. So he got back into the Impala and her engine sprang to life with a throaty purr. Several miles down the deserted highway there was finally a turnoff into a town and they both agreed on a little breakfast diner. "Oh look, pig in a poke." Dean exclaimed rather happily as they slid into their booth.

Sam looked at him for a moment before unscrewing the top of the salt shaker and hitting him between the eyes with it. "Jerk. Just be glad it isn't a Tuesday." He muttered, jerking his head sideways at the newspaper rack. "Or I'd have thrown the whole thing." Sam opened the menu and flipped through it, eventually deciding on waffles, coffee, and bacon. He deserved a treat after being stuck in a mental hospital for so long.

Dean's smile faulted a little at the mention of Tuesday, as Sam had told him very little of what had happened at the Mystery Spot, but he could infer that 'pig in a poke' had been involved. Suddenly he was rather conflicted over whether to get the meal or not. Picking up the menu he saw that they had a bacon cheeseburger, so he figured he'd go with a little safer food item, just in case. As he scanned the desert menu to see if they served pie this early in the morning he muttered, "Bitch, don't go wasting good salt."

"No ghosts here, Dean." Sam chuckled. Just then, the waitress came by to take their orders. It was surprisingly strange to talk to someone who wasn't in a uniform or in his head, but he managed. It was good to have real food, too. And he had really missed coffee. He breathed in the steam for a moment and sighed happily. "It's good to be back in the real world." Then Sam raised his mug in a mock toast and took a deep swallow. It burned on the way down and lodged in a hot ball under his lungs but it felt good. It felt real.

Dean didn't say anything, just watched Sam surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye and smiled a very carefully controlled smile. This was better than he'd seen Sam look in months, even before the hallucinations and the wall breaking down. There was a little voice inside his mind that said that maybe everything was going to finally start getting better. Sure there were still the Leviathans to worry about and the potential for the world to end again, but hey, they dealt with that all the time. At least now he wasn't doing this all alone again. So halfway through the meal he finally clinked his coffee mug against Sam's and awkwardly admitted, "Good to have ya back."

* * *

**A/N: have another one!**


	9. Chapter 9: Hollow Men

**_Chapter Nine: Hollow Men_**

"In this last of meeting places, We grope together, And avoid speech, Gathered on this beach of the tumid river"- T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

* * *

The boys finished their meal a few minutes later. Dean paid and the two of them left and walked out to the impala. "So." Sam asked, sliding into the passenger seat, "Where to now? Is there a cabin or a job or something you've been looking into?" He wanted a distraction, and salting and burning a couple vengeful spirits seemed like a pretty good place to start.

As Dean pulled the Impala out of the diner's parking lot and back onto the open road he reached over and opened the glove compartment, handing a stack of newspaper clippings and a map to Sam. "Lucky for you Samantha, while you were enjoying your time at the spa, I found these." The bundle contained two different likely hunts only about fifty miles from each other, the locations of each incident circled in red on the map. "From the details, I'm thinkin' the first might be wedigo, might be yeti. Elevation seems right between their territories. And the second sounds like a poltergeist, but I'm not ruling anything out yet." Articles outlined that there had been four mysterious deaths up near the off-season ski resort and another 3 deaths all inside the same house over the past seven years. "And Franks been keeping tabs on the Leviathans, but not much has changed on that front."

"How about..." Sam looked at the maps, weighing the danger, the distance, and the time each would need. "How about the Wendigo first. The poltergeist will still be there when we're done so we can get it, too." He buckled his seatbelt and continued to read Dean's newspaper clippings as they drove too fast down the highway, Dean's favorite tape blasting over the speakers. Sam even joined in with Dean's singing a few times. Their routine was as familiar as the back of his own hand and as comforting as when Dean used to sing their mom's lullaby to him when he was a baby. It was amazing how much of a difference getting away from those four walls had made.

"Wendigo it is."

And so they drove for two days, catching a break at a terribly run down motel with a particular grunge which might be called a patina and horrible, sickly yellow walls. Needless to say it was cheap and neither of them tried to pay attention to the skittering sounds in the middle of the night. When they finally arrived outside the town of Alta, Utah, they were both ready for a bath of pure disinfectant and a good night's sleep before heading into town to get more info on their potential wendigo.

Hot water pounded down on Sam's shoulders. He had long since finished scrubbing off the grime of days of travel. Now, he was just trying to unwind. He hadn't seen Lucifer since their argument despite ending up on the tower of the citadel in Pandemonium every night. Once, he had seen someone flying overhead. Another time, he'd glimpsed Ba'al being led to his stable. Sam was sick of silence. Closing his eyes, he unbent his pride, and prayed.

"Lucifer. I miss you. I want to talk to you, and I am sorry. I am sorry for hurting you. I never meant... Please. Can I see you? We're in a decent motel tonight and Dean plans on scoping out witnesses which means he probably isn't going to be here tonight, so... Just... please?"

There was a long stretch of silence beyond the continual hiss of water streaming down from the shower head. Then finally there was a light touch at the edges of Sam's mind, just a feather light presence and a breath of cold air cutting through the nearly scalding shower, no words or other gesture. But it certainly wasn't difficult to figure out who it was from or what it meant.

Sam sighed, mouth curving into a smile. "Thank you. I'll see you soon." He turned off the showerhead and got out. Then he dried off as quickly as he could and yanked on a t-shirt and his least ratty pair of pajama pants. The rest of his nightly "routine"- brushing his teeth, ect.- was just as rushed. This all turned out to be pointless. For when he finally stretched out on the mattress, he was too wired for sleep. Grumbling, he took out his guns and set to work on cleaning them until his mind quieted down. Then he put them away and pulled the blankets back over himself. Lucifer was writing for him when he arrived in Pandemonium.

Lucifer was in the throne room when Sam arrived, being pulled to the unique location by the angel's whim. Slightly cautions, the angel sat on his throne with his hands steepled in front of him, eyes gazing out about the hall before turning down to look at Sam. There was a subtle shift in his demeanor, not hostility but a protectiveness in the way he held himself, perhaps a distrust. Nodding to Sam, he stood up and descended the steps of the dais, "Sam." The greeting was also carefully reserved. "I... my conduct was childish. I am sorry to have hidden my presence from you." Lucifer said, obviously finding some difficulty in apologizing.

"I should have been more careful about what I said." Sam replied. He almost went to embrace the angel, but decided against it. The irony of the situation did not escape him. This meeting looked and felt like the ones they had before Lucifer showed him Pandemonium except in reverse. He sighed and rubbed the back of his head. "Would asking how you've been be a dumb question?" Same took a few steps toward Lucifer. When he stopped, there was enough space for a human to be comfortable. After being around Lucifer for so long, with his habit of forgetting personal space, it felt almost unbearably far.

"I was... foolish to expect anything else from you. You did not realize the sensitivity of what you were asking about." Lucifer was trying not to be petty, he truly was, but his pride demanded that Sam understand why. "Sam, I saw your motivations perfectly for why you abandoned me to my fate in the Cage, why you were willing to leave your life behind. Do not expect me to so willingly talk about such things however. We simply hold two very different understandings of love, human and angel, and... I will do my best to remember that and not hold you to a standard that you can not achieve. It would be unfair of me."

Sam caught the thinly veiled insult but said nothing. It was good just to talk to him again. "I won't ask again if you don't want me to." He reached out tentatively and rested his hand on Lucifer's shoulder. "Are we okay now?" He wanted to be okay. He wanted to have this, even if it was just meetings in dreams and prayers. If nothing else, it gave him a little of the joy of feeling the Morning Star's grace. But there was so much more than that.

Lucifer felt the longing from Sam, his vessel's Soul calling out to him, and his frozen heart softened as it always would for Sam. Sighing, he took a step forward and moved his wings to encompass Sam, pulling him closer. "I am sorry, I should not have looked to cause you pain in any way. My pride has always gotten the better of me." Once Sam was close enough he put a hand on Sam's shoulder and replied gently, "Yes, we are... okay now."

Sam sighed, feeling a smile spread across his face. He wrapped his arms around the angel, kissing him once before pulling away just a little. "So." He said, still smiling, "For once, we actually have time to ourselves. What would you want to do?" Sam reached down and linked his fingers through Lucifer's, just to keep contact. He had been entirely separated from his angel for days, and he wanted to make up for that.

"Asking what I want to do is a dangerous question, as you probably won't like the answer." Lucifer replied with a positively indecent smile. "So how about you tell me what you'd like to do. Because it's not just time that we have, but space. For Hell is empty and all the devils are gone. Well, save one."

Sam swallowed. "I don't know, I might..." He felt a blush spread up his cheeks. "Nevermind then. Could we... go flying, maybe? I know Ba'al must be around here somewhere, or..." He trailed off, eyes fixed on Lucifer's wings. "would that work?" Sam knew Lucifer had said something along those lines during their early meetings, but he wanted to give the angel a way out just in case.

No, because the things Lucifer wanted to do were an angel ways of showing affection, binding Grace together and tasting another essence, or showing his true form, or explaining why pain could be beautiful as Hell had taught him. So for Sam who had already expressed his loathing of ever sharing such a bond - even if it hadn't been in so many ways- and who was still emotionally scarred from what he had done when he let his own evils free; well, Lucifer was gentleman enough to not bring it up again.

Looking at his wings, he brought them out to the sides and flexed them. "Yes, I would be able to fly with you if you wished. The wings that you see are only a physical representation, my actual wings are much larger and much more powerful, but there is only so much Grace the human mind can stand to see at any point in time." he explained.

"Should I close my eyes?" Sam looped one arm around Lucifer's shoulders, ready to hang on with everything he had. True, he would miss seeing Pandemonium and those beautiful wings, but it was better to close his eyes than have his mind, his eyes, or both burned away by the angel's Grace. "One last question. This isn't going to be like flying with Ba'al, is it? Because that was honestly terrifying." He closed his eyes, wrapping his other arm around Lucifer's waist. "Ready."

"You won't have to close your eyes, I'll keep my Grace hidden, don't worry." Lucifer stated with a small smirk, which only broadened as Sam asked another question. "Oh no, this will be much worse." Wrapping arms like corded steel around Sam's body, he flapped his wings in unison, the power of his take off tremendous. They shot up into the air like a comet, leaving a trail of light as Lucifer used the smallest portion of his Grace to account for Sam's spare weight. Then he stopped and hovered, his great wings working in waves so that at least one pair was always flapping down and keeping them in place. Pandemonium was laid out before them in all of her glory, dwarfed by their height.

Sam yelled, grabbing onto the fabric of Lucifer's shirt so his knuckles went white. "A little warning would have been nice." He muttered, face buried in the angel's shoulder. The feeling of having his legs dangling that far above the ground was not a pleasant one. Eventually, his heart slowed from shocked rabbit to simply nervous. He turned his head sideways and looked down at the city.******  
**

"Ground view just doesn't do it justice..." The city shone. Light from Hell's fires reflected off the gold and gem buildings until one could almost believe it was lit by noon sunlight. The colored lights from the street lamps stood out amidst the gold, giving the entire city the air of a dragon's hoard. "This is incredible."

"Ah, but a warning doesn't really prepare you for anything." Lucifer flew slower than before, the pressure of the air helping to press Sam against his chest as he wheeled down in large circles. "Well, of course. Pandemonium was built with flight in mind. Human cities might not care what a bird or a plane think when they look down, but we do. And it helps to show the demons the difference between fallen angels and themselves." He flew off to the west then, away from the city of shining lights, and into the darkness of the Stygian depths. The farther he flew them from Pandemonium, the hotter the air became, the more rancid the smells that wafted from the ground.******  
**

"See how the demons live?" Below them was a great expanse of bones and bodies, merging into a homogenous mass of twisted forms and twisted intent. "No matter how much they might attest to their true natures, it all shows in Hell. This is not a pretty land, Sam," But oh what you could have accomplished with it... "There are the racks to the far west, and the fields of pain to the south. In the far east you would find the 'web', and in the north the land is replaced by the endless river of fire and the four great rivers that flow from Hell."

Lucifer knew that Sam had a dark side that he denied and fought against with every fiber of his being, and that pained him in some ways; because he thought the dark could be just as breathtaking as the light, and Sam was so very, very beautiful when he was dark. However, with his internal struggles and iron clad self control, Lucifer doubted Sam would allow himself to see the merits of Hell.

Part Sam wanted to look away from the carnage below him. He wanted to pretend he could not see the souls that were systematically being turned to black smoke as they hung on the rack. He even wanted to ignore the screams of demons who had failed in their tasks and were being disciplined. But he couldn't.

Instead, he felt himself drawn to the heat and flame on the ground below. It was a different, less wholesome pull than the one he shared with the angel he was holding on to, but it was still there. He grimaced and tore his eyes away. He did not want the reminder of what Azazel had turned him into. He didn't want to imagine the black smoke that Azrael had burned away running in his veins. He wanted to pretend none of this had anything to do with him.

Still, no matter how hard he tried, he could not block out the sounds and smells of the Pit. While the screams of human souls still grated and scratched at his conscience, the demons' cries were different. They formed a sort of twisted harmony that rang through the cavern, echoing in his mind. Coupled with the chime of Lucifer's wings, it was almost music. True, it was discordant and disturbing, but there was something else in it he could not quite name. Sam tightened his arms around the angel as if that could block out the clamor from below, closed his eyes, and returned his head to Lucifer's shoulder.

Lucifer turned away from the darkness and towards the lake of fire, leaving the noise and tumult behind. As he alighted them on a great mountain overlooking the burning lake, the air stifling and arid, he slowly let go so that Sam could get his legs back under him. Here there were no sounds, only an eerie whistling of winds being birthed over the flames. There was a wildness and a peace here, or as much a peace as could be found in Hell, removed from both civilization and savagery.

"We fell here." he said quietly, observing it as if it was of little consequence. "Into the lake. I was one of the few who emerged intact. That's why so many of the denizens of Tartarus are hideous, they either were cast in there or emerged from it originally." Hopefully the lake would help calm Sam, as he had noticed the agitation that had filled the human when he heard the choirs of Hell.

"Oh..." Sam stared out across the rippling flames. Their light reflected in his brown eyes, making them seem red. "I didn't realize. Most of the time, when they here 'lake of fire', people don't take it literally. But this..." He shook his head. "It's almost beautiful from here. But any other perspective... it would be..."

He reached out, running his fingers gently through Lucifer's flight feathers. "That can't be a good memory. I'm sorry." Sam stayed close to his angel, hand slipping from his wing to link his fingers through Lucifer's again. Absently, he brought their joined hands to his mouth and brushed his lips across the back of Lucifer's fingers.

"But it is." Lucifer replied, looking at Sam awash in the light of the flames and magma. "It was here where we finally steeled ourselves, steeled our resolve. This," his hand waved out at the nightmarish landscape, "was were I realized that it was better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven. I may have fell for love of my Father, but here I was baptized by fire and left those ties behind." The smile on his face was hollow and dangerous for a moment, "But perhaps that is not how you would want to think of me?"

"No... I can... I ran away from my dad after all. I know it isn't the same thing, but... I think I might understand a little." He tilted his head slightly to the side. "Isn't there some poem about the world ending in fire?" Sam shook his head and turned to face Lucifer fully. "Thank you for showing me this. It... it actually means a lot."

"There is a freedom in willing emancipation, no matter how lonely that road may be."

Lucifer looked out over his ruinous kingdom. "I am glad to hear it."

"Team free will..." Sam chuckled. "I don't think Dean really thought about that name before he picked it. That or, he didn't think about it enough. Probably the second one." He leaned over and kissed Lucifer on the cheek. It was quick and innocent, but any contact seemed doubly important after their argument.

Lucifer chuckled. "Yes, knowing him, he likely didn't think about the connotations that could have." At the soft kiss from Sam, he turned and stared. "You really are the most fascinating thing, Sam." He reached out his wings and brushed the crystalline feathers against Sam' back in an angel's version of a caress.

Sam might be a continual torture for Lucifer, but how was this any different than Hades and Persephone? Had not the greatest loves always been wrought with pain and difficulty? He idly wondered if he presented the man with a pomegranate, would Sam understand what he meant.

"Glad I'm interesting." Sam rolled his eyes good-naturedly. He reached back and smoothed down the shining feathers, running his fingers through them to put each one back in its proper place. "How do you reach these to keep the feathers straight? Unless angels are built completely differently than us humans, you shouldn't be able to reach most of these at all."

"You're nothing if not interesting, Sam. And that is saying something, considering how long I've lived and how much I've seen." Lucifer then looked at his wings and shrugged, "These wings are only a representation, besides, Grace flows through them and unless I am injured, they would never look anything but presentable. I am known for my pride, and that does extend towards appearances."

"Oh." He nodded, "That does make sense." Sam lowered himself onto the ground, folding his legs under him. He gestured to a spot to his right in invitation and turned to stare out across the lake. For once, he wished he had some sort of skill with paint or pencil. The scene in front of him was almost too beautiful for words alone and a picture might have helped to capture what he could never express within the limits of spoken or written language.

Lucifer's wings beat a little as he sat down next to Sam before they settled behind him. They sat there, before the raging inferno below, with tranquil stretches of cooling stone that float upon the boiling surface, and nothing was said for a long time. The wind howled at times, harsh and lonely, as it reverberated through lower crags and clefts in the rock, and occasionally it would whistle like an animal's cry. There was a barrenness to the land, a desolation that called to their broken and battered souls.

Sam leaned against Lucifer, the chill of his skin in sharp contrast to the waves of heat rolling off the lake of fire. He did not want to speak and shatter the perfect silence. True, their surroundings were harsh and he could still hear the screams from the rack in the distance, but it fit them. This landscape did not demand perfection and so they were able to simply sit and be with each other while the flames raged below them.

Lucifer wrapped a tentative arm around Sam's shoulders, as much to keep Sam cool as to draw him closer. There was no great pretense in the motion, no expectations or demands. As they sat there, Lucifer felt the tug of the Cage and he closed his eyes to pray to no one that he wouldn't be pulled away before Sam woke up. Of course he hadn't told Sam, hadn't really explained the strain that projecting himself from the Cage created, but it meant so much to the younger man to be able to see him, so he endured it as he had endured everything else in his long life, silently and without pomp.

"Lucifer?" Sam looked at him, concern plain on his face and in his voice. "Is everything okay?" He stroked a thumb across the angel's cheek, under one closed eye. He could feel the strain in the angel's features. "What's going on?" He kept his other arm around Lucifer and his hand on his shoulder, wishing there was something more he could do.

Lucifer opened his eyes and waved a hand at Sam. "I'm alright, just... tired." He didn't want Sam fussing over him like some newborn cherub. He shook his head when he noticed the lingering concern on Sam's face, "Honest. There is no reason to look so worried."

Sam didn't quite believe him, but Lucifer had promised never to lie, so he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Alright." He settled back, combing his fingers though Lucifer's wings soothingly. He didn't think it was even possible to sleep in a dreamscape, but it wouldn't hurt him to relax.

Lucifer watched as Sam leaned into him and he couldn't quite keep the smile off his face. People weren't trusting around him, not the other fallen, certainly not demons, and not human. And yet here was Sam, practically going to sleep with hands buried deep in his wings. As Sam's eyes closed and his mind began to wander away from this particular dreamscape, Lucifer watched the fires of Hell grow dim and distant, listened as the shrieks from the rack faded into nothing. He bent over and placed a kiss on Sam's forehead as the sky began to fall and nothingness overtook all that the eye could see.

He only prayed that whatever else Sam dreamed of tonight, it would be as relaxing as that moment.

The motel door banging shut startled Sam awake. He sat up, reaching for a weapon that was no where near him. "Whadidimiss?" He slurred, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "oh... Hey Dean. How'd everything go?" He let himself fall back onto the mattress, pulling a pillow over his eyes to block out the light. "What time is it, anyway?" He stretched and turned onto his stomach, rolling his shoulders as resettling wings. Snatches of his dream, an actual dream, not his meeting with Lucifer, were coming back to him. He had been flying again, this time on his own, over a forest. Someone had been chasing him. Suddenly, Sam was wide awake. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and taking a quick glance at the clock. The glowing number read six-thirty a.m. He looked at Dean and raised an eyebrow. "What kept you out so late... Or brought you back so early? Either one."

Dean stood at the threshold of their room, eyes darting around for any dangers, before he sighed and stepped in. He was covered in blood spray and bits of what might have been grey matter and intestine. He had a deep gash that was still bleeding on the side of his face, but seemed to be steady enough on his feet, soaked as his boots and pants were from the snow. Tossing a bloody duffel bag onto the small kitchenette counter, he rolled his neck, trying to relieve some of the tension that had built up over his evening on 'recon'. He ignored Sam's questions for the most part, raising his hand to wave off Sam's curiosity and concern and walked into the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping in with his clothes still on. "S'not a wendigo." He called out after roughly five minutes of just standing under the spray. "Didn't take the hiker today, just took a couple chomps and left." There was a deep sigh and the sound of a bottle being popped open, either soap or shampoo. "Well, guess it was more like they left a few chomps... s'in the bag." he elaborated with bone deep weariness.

Sam got to his feet and walked over to the bathroom door so he could more easily talk to his idiot of a brother. "Why the hell didn't you call me? And don't say you didn't have time, you left eight hours ago." He leaned against the wall and banged his head backwards, once, twice, three times against the wall. Dean's logic would never, ever make sense to him. Not in thirty years, or forty, or fifty. Just... Never. He could have gotten himself killed out there and Sam wouldn't have known!

He gave the bag a considering look, trying to figure out if he wanted to look at the remains of the monster in the bag and see what is was for himself. Sam decided against it, thank-you-very-much. "So, if it wasn't a wendigo, what was it?" He nudged the bag with one foot, nose wrinkling at the stink. "Smells like rugaru. Except it isn't burnt. I can't quite place it." He covered his nose and coughed. "Not that I want to. That thing reeks." There was a bottle of air freshener on the desk. He sent a long spray into the room. A smell that was supposed to be flowers mixed with the stink of monster, doing almost nothing to fix the problem. Sam rolled his eyes and sat back down to wait.

"Didn't find the monster eight hours ago." Dean yelled back through the door, trying to be heard over the noise of the shower. "Hell if I know. Why else do you think I bagged part of it? Planning on taking it back to Bobby, see what he can figure out." After a few moments the water shut off and Dean walked out with a towel round his hips, toweling off his hair. "Listen, that thing, whatever it was, wasn't in dad's journal. Nothin' that I've ever seen. Not Leviathan, not wendigo, and certainly not a rugaru. Fire didn't even slow the thing down." Grabbing some clothes from his own duffel on the far bed, he slipped into some pants. "Hell of the thing is, decapitating it didn't slow it down either." What had finally killed the creature was when it had fallen into a faerie circle, and Dean had no idea what to make of that. Maybe related to the fae? Because he really didn't want to go dealing with the Little People again.

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "You took it's head off and it kept coming? Christ! What does that?"

Dean shrugged at Sam as he pulled a t-shirt on, "You got me."

Sam started getting his things together, giving the bag on the floor a wide berth. "Fantastic, isn't it. We clean up the Michael mess and next thing you know we've got this." He gestured over his shoulder at the bag. "Let's just hope there aren't more of them." Quickly, he pulled on a clean set of clothes. Then Sam picked up his bag, slung it over one shoulder, and scooped the room keys off the desk. "I'll go check us out."

The man at the desk was not happy to actually have to work so early in the morning. Sam waited impatiently as he worked, trying not to tap his foot. He paid as quickly as he could, then went outside to put his bag in the impala. He slid into the passenger seat as soon as Dean joined him outside. "Alright, let's go. We can get breakfast on the way to-" Sam stopped abruptly. "Dean. We can't take it to Bobby. He's..."

When Dean stepped outside, he momentarily shivered against the cold air. Rubbing his hands together and blowing on them, he wished he'd taken a longer shower. Even with how hot he'd had that water, it hadn't done much to get the chill out that had settled into his bones after 5 hours in the snow. "Breakfast sounds gre..." he started to reply when Sam's second statement caught him off guard like a blow to the gut, winding him. "Damn it." Dean wheeled around to Baby and placed his hands on her frigid metal, trying to calm himself down. There were times, like now, when he would completely forget that Bobby was gone.

Bobby, who'd been like a second father to them, especially after everything that had happened.

"Damn it..." he said again, quieter this time and infinitely more pained. And if you had of asked, his eyes only watered because of the sting of the cold air.

"Yeah, I know." Sam got back out of the car, leaning on the hood. He reached across and gently squeezed Dean's shoulder. He didn't say anything for a while. Eventually, he got too cold and he gave his brother a gentle push. "C'mon. We've got to get going." He sank back ingo the passenger seat, closed the door, and buckled himself in.

He knew to anyone else, the exchange would have looked almost uncaring, but it was just how they operated. The damn job didn't allow time to sit and sulk. Besides, Dean hated "chick-flick moments" and Bobby would have thrown a fit if he knew they were slacking off on his account. So they pulled themselves together and got on with life. After all, in their line of work, you kept moving if you wanted to keep breathing.

* * *

**A/N: we seem to be speeding back up! Anyway, we have something pretty cool planned, obviously can't tell you what it is, but I'm very excited. **


	10. Chapter 10: Hunt

**_Chapter 10: Hunt_**

"We must not speak to Goblin Men, we must not buy their fruits, for who knows on what soil they have fed, their hungry, thirsty roots"  
- Christina Rossetti, The Goblin Market

* * *

Sam pointed out the window of the impala at a library on the corner. "There. We can do some research and find out what the thing in the bag is." He downed the rest of his coffee as they pulled into the parking lot. There was a recycling bin next to the library doors and he threw his coffee cup and the bag from breakfast into it before walking inside.

The town's small library was empty aside from a young woman in a purple sweater reading in the mystery section and an elderly man in horned rimmed glasses thumbing through a volume behind the counter. Sam went straight over to him, putting on his best college student smile. "Hello sir." The librarian looked up from his book. "How can I help you, young man?" He had a kind voice and Sam's smile became genuine. "I was wondering... I'm looking for some information on local folklore, the supernatural type. Do you know where I could find some books that would help?" The man nodded and stood slowly. "Follow me, I know just where you should start." Sam followed him, shooting a thumbs-up over his shoulder to Dean.

Dean made a slightly annoyed noise, as he had never had the zest for research that Sam had, but he figured it was as good a place as anywhere to start. "You go inside, I'll take a picture of the body and then join ya." Once they'd parked he went around to the trunk and unzipped the bloody bag, snapping a few gruesome photos before closing everything back down. Then he leaned against the trunk and stared at his phone for a while, until the cold started to seep into his bones. He saw the image on the screen and all he could think of was that he should be able to just hit send and have Bobby bring it up on his computer, telling the boys in an instant what they'd almost gotten themselves killed by.

It was only when snowflakes started falling that he shook himself out of his remembrance and walked inside, finding his giant of a brother with little trouble. He was spread out at a table, books open and flipped to pages covered by more books and more pages and... Damn. He hated research. Slipping into the chair across from Sam, he grabbed one of the open books and scanned over the page half-heartedly, "So, what'cha got?"

"Well... It looks like we're dealing with faeries again. People coming over from Great Britain settled this entire area. They must have brought their creatures with them." Sam reached over and picked up a heavy book with frayed sticking on the spine and a faded cover. "See this," he turned the book around to show Dean, "Talks about faery circles. Apparently there are two different types, just like there are two different type of faeries. Seelie, the light- the good faeries, and Unseelie. They look pretty much the same to us, but they seem to be able to tell the difference." Sam looked up. "Point is, Unseelies aren't allowed in Seelie territory and vice-versa. If one does go into the other's territory, they're killed."

He reached for another book. "So then, I started looking for Unseelie faeries that could survive decapitation. and I found this guy." The picture showed a gray skinned fairy with eyes in its shoulders and a giant, gaping mouth in the center of its chest. There was a lump on top of its neck that could have been mistaken for a head in the dark. "Does this look anything like what you found?"

At the mention of Faeries, Dean gave a suppressed shudder and tried not to screw his face up in disgust. He'd had enough of those darn things to last a lifetime. It wasn't that they were difficult to deal with, per say, more that they had a whole community unto themselves and all that glitter in the woman's trailer. Ok, so maybe he shouldn't hold it against them that one of their 'enthusiasts' had an overabundant supply of glitter and bad tea, but he couldn't help it.

Turning on his phone's screen, he laid it down so both he and Sam could get a look at the parts of the monster in his trunk. "Well... that could be it." he said with a small hesitancy, however that was obliterated when they came to the last picture; a picture showing a small closed eye right in the hollow of the shoulder. "Huh..."

"It's called a Blemmyes, or an Androphagi. You know they eat people... So that's about it. They also travel in groups, so we might have a nest on our hands." Sam shuddered. "These things are nasty as hell. But they don't like iron or silver, since they're Unseelie, and we could always herd them back toward that faerie circle... Well, that would get complicated, but anyway."

He closed the books and stacked them neatly on a nearby cart. The old librarian had told him to leave them there rather than trying to put them back where they went. "I say we go back to where you found this thing and do a sweep to see if we find any more."

"A nest?" Dean asked dejectedly. He definitely could use a hunt to get his mind off things, but more faeries were the last thing he wanted. "Well, alright, can't go letting innocent people get eaten by these darn Phlemmies or whatever." Drumming his fingers against the table, he gave the book's entry on these beasties one last glance. "Anything else you need from here poindexter before we get going?"******  
**

"Um, no. I'm good." Sam sat back, rubbing his forehead. "We'll wait until the sun's going to go down, not full dark or we'll just get killed. So until then..." He looked up at Dean, smiling slightly. "Go waste time? Your choice, since I'm the only one who actually got any sleep last night."

"Sleep sounds good. You want a ride back to the motel?" Dean asked, seeing as they were less than a mile away. "We definitely got enough supplies in the way of silver and iron."

"Actually... I think I'll read for a while before I go back." When Dean left, Sam got up and walked over to the mystery section, selected a Sherlock Holmes novel, and sat down to read. He enjoyed reading and it had been too long since he had just been able to sit with a book and lose himself. Now that he had a few hours, he was going to take the opportunity.

Dean drove back to the Impala, fingers tapping against the steering wheel to a tune in his head. He was beyond tired. In fact he'd gotten to the point where his bones ached and his eyelids felt like sandpaper every time he blinked. Perhaps it was too many revelations at once, or killing a faerie, or the prospect that there were still more faeries out there; but whatever it was, Dean was just done. All he wanted was to get back to the hotel, flop onto a bed, and sleep.

Of course, there was always that little voice in the back of his head that was sending off quiet little warning signals because he didn't have Sam with him, didn't know what Sam was doing. The voice sounded suspiciously like his father, charging him to watch after Sammy. Sam hadn't wanted to go back to the hotel and he was too tired to force him. That quiet voice told him that it hoped they wouldn't regret that.

Sam finished the book a few hours later and got up, stretching out his spine. His head ached slightly, but in the almost good way that came from thinking about something fun and challenging for a long time. Quickly, he checked his watch. It was still early afternoon so he still had some time.

When he asked, the old librarian gave him a map of the surrounding forest. Half an hour later, he had located a place where the Androphagi might be nesting. He returned the map with a smile and left, turning up the collar of his coat.

He walked the mile back to the motel quickly to stave off the cold. Even so, his face and ears were red by the time he got back to the room. "Hey Dean," Sam closed the door behind him, "back in one piece."

Dean groaned as he heard the motel door open, key fumbling in the lock. "S'good't'ear..." he replied in a garbled mess of syllables that were mostly muffled by his pillow. Pushing himself up he swiped at his mouth with the hand, slightly annoyed when it came away damp from drool. Blinking a few times to try and make his eyes cooperate, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and shook his head. "Good... good. Enjoy your time at..." He had to think for a moment to remember where Sam had been, "The library?"

A quick glance at the alarm clock informed him that he'd gotten about four hours of sleep after all the tossing and turning.

Sam took one look at his brother's sleep-glazed eyes and the dark circles surrounding them and somewhat gently pushed him back down. "We have time. I'll get everything together, you sleep." Normally, he wasn't quite this fussy with Dean, but after being deprived of sleep for so long, he didn't want his brother tired. If he wasn't focused and as well-rested as possible, he could get badly hurt or even killed by what they were going to hunt.

Hoping Dean actually listened to him this time, Sam settled down at the desk and began to clean and pack the weapons they would need. He added a container of salt just in case they needed a distraction and loaded their pack with as much iron and silver as seemed reasonable. Then he started pacing around the room, eyeing the clock to keep track of the few hours left until they went to hunt.

It really didn't take much convincing for Dean to slip back into sleep, his eyelids promptly mutinying against the small portion of his brain that wanted to stay awake. His dreams were colorless things with the sounds of footfalls in snow and the lonely cry of a hawk. There wasn't anything terribly memorable about them, besides the feeling of dread and intense cold. And when he finally awoke a few hours later, that same cold still coursed through his veins like ice water. He couldn't help the feeling that something was going to go wrong, but damn, if he wished it wasn't just a bad dream for once. After all, Sam was the one with the precognitive shit.

"Ngggh." he groaned out as he stretched and pulled his head out of the pillow he'd practically suffocated himself in, "Bout time to go there Sammy boy?"

* * *

Dean parked the impala in a small lot reserved for hikers and campers and the two of them got out. Sam had a map they'd picked up at the gas station on the way that showed the different foot trails. Together, they started up the one that would take them by the rockfall where they hopefully nested. After about fifteen minutes of fast walking, they turned on their flashlights and stepped off the path. As silently as they could, they looped around so they came at the rocks from one side.

A flicker of movement to the right caught Sam's eye and he pointed at it. An Androphagi stood just outside the mouth of a large hollow in the rocks, staring around with pale yellow eyes. Dean gave him their signal to slip off toward the left and he ran off quietly, a long, iron knife held in one hand.

The Androphagi tensed ever so slightly, perhaps sensing that something was amiss. However the wind was coming from behind it, so it certainly couldn't have smelled them.

Dean felt the grip in his hand, tossing the knife up and down, testing the weight. It was a good knife, nice talon design with slight serration towards the back. Maybe a tomahawk would be better, more leverage in the swing, but he could make this work. He glanced over to make sure that Sam had fallen into position, scanning the area for any more surprises, but so far it seemed that only the one Androphagi had come out.

One... Two... Go. Sam charged and stabbed down hard, burying the knife hilt-deep in the center of the faerie's back. Two inches of the blade jutted out from its open mouth, dripping dark blood onto the ground. The flesh around the iron blade hissed and burned, filling the air with the same stink as the one Dean had carted back to the motel. Sam barely noticed. He just had time to jerk the knife free and throw himself to the ground before three more Androphagi ran out from the rocks, teeth bared and eyes glowing. In a moment, he was back on his feet, blade poised for a strike. Before he had a chance to use it again, Dean's knife sank into the nearest monster's left eye. It dropped to the ground, twitching.

Dean crouched low, getting his center of balance over the balls of his feet as he ducked a swinging arm, sharp talon-like nails gleaming. Right, simple job, kill a nest of these things. At least they didn't sparkle or cover him in glitter. The strange guttural noise that he could only assume passed for language among these walking freak shows sounded on his right and he realized that there must have been a fifth one out in the forest already. Damn, things just kept looking up.

Jumping forward, he tackled one of them to the ground, doing his best to come at the thing from behind and keep his hands out of its gaping maw, although the strange protruding ribs very nearly pierced his arms as they fell. As they rolled about in the snow, the Androphagi got the upper hand and rolled over on top of Dean, fingers blindly clawing at his scalp. Thankfully the blood wasn't flowing into his face, but off the crown of his skull and dripping down, staining the snow. Switching his grip on the knife so that it was pointed inwards, he held it with both hands and plunged it into the faerie-kin, pulling the knife towards him through the Androphagi.

Sam saw blood on the snow and immediately abandoned the Androphagi he'd been about to engage. He rushed over to his brother and pushed the dead monster off him before holding out one hand. "You alright?" When he saw Dean's nod, he moved so the two of them were back to back.

The last three faeries charged them without warning, two circling around and the last ending in front of him. Sam slashed and stabbed at it, trying to avoid the mouth. His stay in the mental hospital had affected him, however, and he was tiring more quickly than he thought he would. Eager to end it, he stabbed forward and down, ramming the knife through the left side of the Androphagi's mouth, through its throat to hit its lung. Sharp teeth scraped down his arm, leaving ugly, bloody furrows in their wake. Sam released the handle of the knife and jerked his arm back. The teeth grazed his knuckles as they closed. Drawing another knife and hanging on tight to compensate for the blood that was making his hand slippery, he turned to face the last two.

Dean heard the sharp intake of breath that signaled that Sam had gotten injured, and suddenly he was seeing red. These bastards were going to die, he only wished he had enough time to male their deaths slow and painful for hurting Sammy. Flipping his knife so the grip was more beneficial towards slashing, he swung his arm out and up, catching one of the faeries in the stomach, slashing a huge bloody cut straight up to its left eye. The creature bellowed in rage, the ghastly sound echoing through the snowy forest, for even the snows dampening properties could do little to such a horrid sound.

However, the moment after the Androphagi's cry fell away, the silence that replaced it was a million times worse. No animals could be heard and even the wind had suddenly become silent, dying down completely.

Dean grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him out of the way of a slash from the final Androphagi. His brother's labored breath told him all he needed to know. They needed to end this quickly. Just as he got his knife into the abdomen of the thing, slipping the sharp blade between ribs until it puncture the heart, there came a sharp whistle, like the call of an elk.

Sam's head snapped up. The sound reverberated through the trees again. This time it was accompanied by a loud, trumpet-like blast. Something in the sound made Sam's blood turn cold. He looked over at Dean, eyes wide. "C'mon." The two of them started to run, stumbling over fallen branches, faces and legs lashed by leaves and brambles. Behind them, Sam could hear the baying of enormous hounds.

Almost without thinking, he began to pray. There were no words, there was no time for that. Instead, he focused on the feeling of panic, the sounds of their pursuers, and how close they were. Just when he was certain they would be caught, a bright column of purple-white light exploded out of the ground behind them. Sam and Dean didn't wait to see what had done it. They kept running until they reached the parking lot, then sped away with, filling the eerie silent air with the screech of tires and the stink of burning rubber.

Dean's knuckles were white as he gripped the impala's steering wheel, an instinctual fear coursing through his blood like a toxin. It was rare that Dean was truly afraid of something, angry, certainly, cautious, eh, but fear? And this was much worse than normal, healthy fear that he might feel about something getting Sammy, this was a bone deep irrational fear that felt purely primordial. This was like nothing he'd felt before, and he didn't know what had been following them in that forest, hunting them, but he somehow knew that it was a big bad and if they hadn't of gotten away they never would have.******  
**

And then it sounded again, that terrible animal call, but farther off in the distance. "Sam, you seem to know more about this faerie crap, any idea what the hell is making that noise?" he asked with practiced calm.

Sam shook his head, slowly breathing in and out in an attempt to calm him racing heart. "I..." Quickly, he started running through any piece of faerie mythology he could remember. It didn't take him long to realize what that thing had- what it was. The hounds, the horn, the elk call... Another wave of fear swept through him and he crossed both arms over his chest, hands balled into fists.

"It was the Wild Hunt. There are about a hundred names for it and there is some version in every culture's mythology. They hunt down souls with... and you're not going to like this... Hellhounds. Pretty much. No one, really no one escapes from them. So I don't know how we did. Thing is, they aren't supposed to be out unless it's the solstice, which isn't for a while now, or unless..." Sam shook his head. "Or unless it's the end of the world, which right now, there've been no signs or anything I've heard of." He looked up slowly. "Have there been?"

Dean looked up and blew out an angry huff of air, because of course it would be something terrible. The Winchester Luck would allow for nothing less. "Well, the Leviathans are gonna eat up everything if we can't stop them, so maybe they thought that counted?" There certainly hadn't been any omens of anoth... Wait. "You said that Michael hitched a ride out with you, right? Could he...?"

Sparing a glance at Sam, he made a face that silently communicated everything; could Michael have somehow started up the Apocalypse again? Because that would need a righteous man to spill blood in Hell to start, and was that open to people beyond Winchesters? Lilith was dead, so they didn't have to worry about Lucifer getting loose too, right? And what the hell is going on around here!?

Sam held up his hands. "I have absolutely no idea, Dean. I've been in mental hospital for... Jeeze... A month? Maybe a bit less. Point is, I have no idea what the hell is happening with anything, including the Leviathans. Maybe... Michael's definitely powerful enough, but he's operating without a vessel. I didn't even think that was possible, so I don't know what he can do. I just... We either need to try and talk to Azrael again, which I'd rather not do. Or I need to go to sleep for a little bit." He held up a hand to fend off Dean's reaction. "I know you don't like that I'm taking to Lucifer... Or any of the rest of it. But it's the only option we've got at the moment."******  
**

Dean made a face that told anyone watching exactly how happy he was with this and turned his eyes back to the road. When they arrived at the motel, Sam cleaned and bandaged the cuts on his arm as quickly as he could, checked Dean's head, then threw himself onto the bed to sleep. The sounds of the Hunt were still echoing in his mind when he finally drifted off.

Pandemonium was as bright as always, made brighter by the pitch-black depths that surrounded her. The magic lanterns that festooned the streets flickered with green and blue flames like so many will-o'-the-wisps, leading a person on endless journeys through her ornate streets. Lucifer stood out in the middle of the main street, sandal clad feet pacing endlessly as he spoke to a Fallen, a great twisted beast with the bare bones of wings protruding from its tortured back.

"Yes, I understand what that means, but what would you have me do? I'm fortunate enough as it is to have this connection with Hell now."

The Fallen responded in a guttural tone too low for others to hear, but Lucifer knew well what it said.

"My first allegiance has always been my own. Do not try to hold your oaths to me as evidence or obligation."

Sam could only understand one word out of the Fallen's response. Michael. He took a step forward without thinking, bringing himself closer to Lucifer, and to the twisted once-angel a few feet further away. It turned to look at him, eyes an impossible shade of blue-violet in its burned and scarred face. For a moment, Sam thought it would speak. Instead it bowed low, ruined wings flapping stiffly, before lumbering away.

"It said Michael." Sam whispered. "It said Michael. Lucifer... What is going on?" His voice was too calm, too quiet. "What the hell is happening?"

"Yes it did." Lucifer replied without turning to look at Sam. There was something in his posture and the way he gazed off into the darkness of the Pit that spoke of an encompassing weariness and disillusionment. And ever the proud angel, yet he looked almost bowed under some great pressure. Finally he turned to address Sam. "Michael has... regained a vessel." It was not in the way Lucifer said this that spoke of its ominous implications, but in the way that he couldn't quite meet Sam's eyes.

Then he spoke again and the words nearly killed him, "I... You will have to kill my brother."**  
**

* * *

**A/N: I AM SO SO SO SO SO SORRY ABOUT THE WAIT. PLEASE FORGIVE ME. HERE. HAVE A CHAPTER AS A CHRISTMAS PRESENT. WE WILL WRITE MORE. **

**I AM SO SORRY.**


	11. Chapter 11: Bargaining Chips

_Chapter 11: Bargaining Chips_

"You should never ask anyone for anything. Never- and especially from those who are more powerful than yourself." -Mikhail Blugalkov, The Master and Margarita

* * *

Azrael stretched. She didn't need to, it wasn't as if angels became stiff or sore from just sitting around, but she enjoyed the sensation her vessel gave to her. Half way through working imaginary kinks out of her spine, she noticed something... Off. Her eyes snapped open and she turned quickly, her wings flaring open and filling the room with shadow.

To a human, with their pathetically limited perception, the space just inside her door would have looked empty. What Azrael saw made her turn cold down to the Grace. She pulled herself up to her full height- no more than five feet and three inches- and swept her wings up and forward in a clear display of power, not that it would do any good against her brother. Azrael smiled sweetly, as if every razor-edged feather she had wasn't aimed at her unexpected guest. "Hello, Michael."

Michael in his trueform was a fearsome sight as he collapsed into himself to fit even one of his heads in front of Azrael's miniscule vessel. "Greetings Azrael." He replied, voice reverberating through both of their Graces. After another moment of effort, he had compacted himself down into a roughly human sized shape, mimicking the rough appearance of the Winchester's father, from when he had possessed the man far in the past. "I see that time has been kind to you, old friend." The words may have been kind, but they were clearly a threat and a warning, for while time had been kind, Michael might not be.

"I noticed that Lucifer's vessel was suddenly hidden from my sight, and you would be the only one alive who would have a chance at pulling off such magic. So tell me, are my suspicions correct? Would you, of all the angels, truly fight against Father's plan in such a way?" Michael waved a hand and suddenly there was angel proofing everywhere, containing the two of them within the tiny room. "And know that while I am asking kindly now for your answer, should you deny me, I have no qualms about raising my hand against you, even given your current female form."

Azrael was half tempted to slip free of her vessel, just so she wouldn't feel so damned small. However, she knew that the moment she did, Michael would destroy it. But that gave her an idea. She would have to be careful, very careful, but if she played this correctly, she would survive. Slowly, she raised one eyebrow. "I wish I could say the same to you, little brother, but you seem to be lacking a vessel. And that must be quite an inconvenience."

Holding a hand up in front of her self and hoping he would give her enough time to speak, she continued. "I won't lie to you, Michael. I did save Sam. I was repaying an old debt." She shifted slightly, wishing she was safe enough to move around. However, she knew that Michael may see it as an attack, and she had never been able to take him in a fight. "One boy won't stop you from carrying out your- Father's- plan. Oh, true, they got in the way last time, but they had help that they lack now. However," Here, she tilted her head consideringly and drew her eyebrows slightly together in concern. "How will you finish your plan without a vessel? I see you favor their father's shape, when not tormenting Samuel. I can bring him back for you to use, take away the marks of time, and give you a vessel worthy of helping you in our Father's work. But." She met his eyes squarely. "I want your word that I will not be harmed unless, for some reason, I attempt to harm you. I am not so unreasonable to demand that you do not defend yourself. And since I don't plan on attacking you, you don't have to worry."

"Now," she held out her right hand, palm up, "do we have a deal?"

Michael considered the offer for a long while, silence stretching out uncomfortably between them. He made no move to shake her hand for the entire time that he was thinking over her words, simply letting her hand hang there uncomfortably, knowing that she wouldn't dare lower or retract it. Finally he narrowed his eyes and responded, "A vessel would certainly speed my process, although Samuel's soul is so pliable that I was nearly able to kill him without the assistance of a vessel to bind me to this physical plane." Taking a breath for effect, and not for necessity, he added, "Yes, you have my word that I will not hunt you down as long as you have given me no reason to turn against you. Give me a vessel from the Book of the Dead and you will be safe for as long as you remain separate from my plans."

Reaching forward he shook her hand, Grace enveloping her vessel's flesh.

"However, should you betray me, my vengeance shall be swift and absolute. Know that, sister."

"I will remember." Azrael smiled thinly and stepped away. "Follow me, please."

Without waiting for him to respond, Azrael opened a door and walked quickly down a flight of stairs into the basement of her house. The walls around them were covered in old symbols meant to contain and protect. They were concentrated around a metal door at the far end of the room. She opened it and looked back over her shoulder at her brother. "Wait here, please."

Her first step brought her through the door and t closed and locked behind her. The second carried her out of her vessel. It dropped onto the carpet and stayed there. The angel turned away from the empty shell she'd been using and went to the two enormous books in the center of the world. After a moment's hesitation, she opened the one closest to her. Power shot through her the moment she touched it. Quickly, she turned the pages until she found the name she wanted. Carefully, Azrael plucked out one of her own feathers and used the razor edge to scrape the name from the book.

She closed the book with an equal amount of care, stepped back into her vessel, and walked back out into the basement. "Your new vessel is on the couch upstairs. I rebuilt him so he is in the state he was when you last used him. Go in peace."

Michael could smell the stink of fear from his sister, even as she valiantly fought to hide it. He could respect that, that pride that kept on strong enough to face, with a stiff upper lip, an opponent you could never beat. "Thank you sister. I will remember you well for this."

In truth, he hated her. She was worse than the Fallen, for she chose to join with humans who were not her vessels in lascivious acts and sully her Grace; and yet because of her important job, she was allowed to retain her Grace, merely excommunicated from Heaven. However, she had done him a boon, and he would not soon forget it.

Appearing beside his new vessel, he smiled to himself as he let his Grace ghost over the cheek of this young vision of John, the father of his true vessel. He would have preferred to be in his true vessel, but experience showed him that without serious incentives, Dean would never say yes. In that respect, he envied Lucifer. Sam had said yes, although in an attempt, which had worked in part, to fell the great Adversary. He swiftly stopped himself from further contemplation of his younger brother, that was a dangerous train of thought to indulge. So instead he slipped inside his new vessel, and after the light had faded from the room, John's mouth quirked up in a small, feral smile. "And now, Sam Winchester, you will meet your doom."

Then he was gone with the whisper of feathers and malice.

* * *

Sam sat, elbows on his knees and his head propped in his hands, as his brother paced back and forth in their motel room. Weak, early morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, exaggerating the dark circles under his eyes and the bruises decorating his skin. Sam had filled him in on his conversation with Lucifer, fear collecting in his stomach and twisting around his insides like a serpent. Dean wasn't much better off, but he was trying his best to hide it. Not that he could ever hide that from Sam.

"The apocalypse? You're sure?" He asked again. Sam nodded and Dean went back to pacing. "How the hell do we kill Michael? Holy fire doesn't work and we don't have an archangel's sword handy." Sam's eyebrows drew together as he thought. "I think... Didn't Bobby say once that Death's scythe could kill anything?" His brother's only responce was a derisive snort. "Remember what happened last time we talked to him?"

Sam grimaced. "You're right... The only other option is... We could try talking to Azrael again. She might have a sword, or she could talk to Death for us." He sounded doubtful. Azrael had made it very clear she wanted nothing more to do with them. She had helped him only because she felt she had owed him a debt for stopping the apocalypse and for what Cas had done. However, they didn't have much choice. "What do you think?"

Dean rubbed at the bridge of his nose, wishing that life would slow down, just once, so that he could enjoy it, instead of waiting for the other shoe to drop and then having to scramble once it did. "Yeah, Azrael is probably our best bet right now, and if she doesn't like it, she can suck it. This isn't about upsetting a little reclusive angel anymore, this is about the goddamn apocalypse suddenly being back on." He chuckled weakly and looked at Sam, "You'd think stopping this thing once would be enough."

Their only saving grace so far was that Lucifer was still trapped, because as much as Sam seemed to trust that Satan wasn't interested in him just to have a vessel again, Dean simply couldn't agree. Not after the look he'd seen in Lucifer's eyes when he'd worn Sam, the way he'd seemed to revel in his brother's body. It was one of the sickest things he'd ever seen, ever had to face down, another person wearing Sam's face.

"Alright..." Sam straightened his spine and closed his eyes. The phrase had been short and simple, and, despite only having said it once, Sam had memorized the summoning. It may have had something to do with Lucifer putting into his head in the first place, but he was not going to question it. Right now, they just needed to talk to Azrael.

When she appeared, she looked, for want of a better term, smitey. Slowly, she pulled her lips up and back in something that bore no resemblance to a smile. "My. Darling. Brother. Almost. Attacked. Me." Azrael almost spat the words. "And I do believe I instructed you to never call on me again. What part of that did not make it through your thick skulls? And now, thanks to you two imbeciles, the world has a fully functioning, very angry, very insane archangel on its hands. Do you two have anything to say for yourselves?"

Dean's eyes narrowed as he looked at her, "Thanks to us?! How the hell are we to blame for Michael getting a vessel? Or better yet, where the HELL did he get a vessel from. Shouldn't I be the last one available for rental?" It wasn't like there were any Winchesters left. He knew, he'd checked out all of their genealogy after the last time this had happened.

Unless...

"Azrael, did you raise someone for Michael to use as a vessel?" He was proud that he hadn't shouted, but perhaps the deathly quiet with which he spoke the words were worse. Because right now, that seemed like the only way he could have gotten a vessel, especially after Death had made it more than clear that he didn't want anything more to do with Earth's little apocalyptic problems.

"It is your fault, Dean, for not killing him when you had the chance. For not making sure that nothing else got out of the cage with Sam. And it was your decision to use the hex bags, not mine. And that, you moron, is what set him off." Azrael's hands were trembling with the effort of stopping herself from striking Dean down on the spot.

"And of course. I. did. Of course I raised a vessel for him." Her voice was practically a snarl. "You remember what Hell was like, I'm sure. Ripped up again" she took a step forward, "and again" another step, "and again?" She glared at Dean, somehow managing to make it seem as if she were looking down at him despite the eleven inch height difference, "And never being able to die? Do you really expect me to allow that to happen to me when no one would gain anything from me fighting back? Besides," she jabbed him in the chest with one finger, hard, "Exactly how much help would I be in that state? So if anything, you owe me."

"Oh, right. Forgive me if I'm not immediately singing your praises, your highness." Dean snarked back, sick and tired and fed up with all this angel bullshit. "See, unlike you guys, there's not really any way for a human to kill an angel, especially an archangel. "Ah, but I forgot, as a Winchester, the entire fate of the whole goddamn universe is in my hands. You know what, I am so sick, and tired, of listening to you angels bitch and moan about everything that Sam and I should do, didn't do, or could have done better."

His eyes were dark with his anger as he fought his instincts to just deck the angel right then and there. But at a look from Sam, he fought to hold control over himself, to slow his ragged breathing, and not drive off the one possible ally they had. "So here's how I see it, we have an angry archangel on the loose who was going to kill my brother, and who now can kill my brother. And after that? He'll probably start in on you and every other person who he thinks was ever less than a hundred percent loyal to Heaven. Yeah? So let's... set aside blame for two seconds and figure out a freakin' plan on how to kill this bastard."

Azrael's hand came up before she managed to regain control over herself. She left it there for a moment, giving Dean a look that told him exactly how easy it would be for her to kill him, and exactly how much she would care. Then, slowly, she lowered her fist. "Do not test me again, Dean. It will not go well for you."

She took a step back. "I don't have an archangel's sword. It was taken from me when I Fell. But... There is one other thing that can kill an archangel." She smiled slowly. "I'm going to have to talk to an old... friend of mine. I believe you both know him. Black suit, over-fondness for junk food, white ring?" She smiled thinly. "Don't wait up." With a sound like thousands of flapping wings, Azrael disappeared.

Dean supposed all the crazy stunts he'd pulled over the years had completely desensitized him to death, because he felt nothing seeing the warning in the Angel of Death's eyes. It would simply be one more time that he was ripped from the world, plunged into either the pains of Hell or the isolation of Heaven. Honestly, neither of them appealed to him in the slightest.

Turning to Sam he gave a grin, "Well, that went better than I thought it would..." He could almost predict down to the moment when Sammy's rant would start, would have started back before everything had broken them and torn them down to their bare bones. Just a few years ago, Sam would have yelled at him for playing fast and loose with his life, especially during the year after his Crossroads Deal. But now?

Now they were both tired, disillusioned men, no longer the boys they'd once been.

So he wondered if indeed any reproach would come, or if Sam would just soldier on, head down, blaming himself for things far outside his control.

"Goddammit, Dean..." Sam sighed. For a moment, he thought he was going to say more. But there was no point, and he knew it. Dean would keep antagonising things that could kill him with one finger, and Sam would keep throwing himself in the way to try and save him, and vice versa. The only reason he had not gotten between Dean and Azrael that there had not been any room.

"So..." He took a deep breath and stood up. "She's going to talk to Death? I'm assuming she's after the scythe, since it's supposed to be able to kill anything." The words felt heavy and hollow on his tongue, meaningless. The Archangel of Death was getting Death's scythe. They needed the scythe to kill the archangel Michael. And meanwhile, the two humans were stuck in crappy hotel room in the ass end of nowhere hoping nothing too big and powerful dropped by while the important things were being taken care of.

"Sounds like it." Dean saw the resignation in Sam's eyes, and he hated the world for putting it there. "Hey, we've got the hex bags, right? So we're set for a while at least." Because they both knew better than to trust two measly hex bags to protect them for long against an archangel. "And you know, better her talking to him than us."

And wasn't that the understatement of the day?

* * *

Azrael leaned against the wall, hands clasped in front of her. "Oh, Death... Your Stablemaster is calling." She leaned her head back against the wall and waited, somewhat patiently. "Did I mention I have popcorn? It's good, I heard. Thought you might be interested."

When she still received no answer, Azrael reached down and twisted the amethyst ring on her left hand. There was a quiet whump as the air in the room shifted slightly. "I think the last time I had to do that was... the bank of the River Thames in the fourteenth century." Smiling, the archangel turned. "It's been a while."

"You have not lost any of your precocious proclivity for infuriating others, I see." Death replied before his body came into view. There was a look of disdain in his eyes, as much at the fact that she could summon him as the fact that he was standing before her at all. He had resented God when he'd made Azrael and bound Death to her will, after all, it was the ultimate insult he could have come up with. And it certainly didn't help that she was as much a snarky bastard as Death was.

But such was the general case for children.

"I assume you have good reason to summon me, as not even you are so terribly self important as to call me down just for a chat, old times sakes." They didn't have old times, they didn't chat, and they certainly didn't bribe each other with food. The popcorn was an especially nice touch, though, clueing him in immediately to the fact that she needed a boon that he wasn't likely to want to give.

"Of course not!" She smirked. "Good to see you haven't changed, old friend." Azrael pulled out a chair and sat down, crossing her ankles delicately. "I need to borrow your scythe to kill Michael, and then I'll give it right back."******  
**

"And why would I agree to that, you might say? Well... Maybe because, if you don't, my darling brother is going to turn you into his puppet. Help me, and you get to just go about your business as usual. It's no choice at all, really." Still smiling in a self-satisfied manner that she knew couldn't be winning her any favors, she reached over and plucked a piece of popcorn out of the bowl. "I'll give you a minute to think it over."

Death sighed, and it sounded like rattling bones turning to dust, it sounded like sands running through an hourglass, it sounded like the end of time. Humans had never truly been able to see him as he truly was, but at least this form wasn't the worst he'd had to inhabit to make visitation. Even Azrael preferred the personification's human form to his true one, so he'd always consented. He seemed to be doing a lot of consenting lately.

"Why do I have the feeling that you don't care one iota about me, and you're in this save your own sorry skin. You didn't give him a... ah, you did. You really should know that that attitude of yours to act long before you think will get you killed, and I won't even have to have a hand in it." He smirked at her, his avian face hard and shrewd, as he reached forward and took a handful of the popcorn himself, content to chew on the food while they bantered. "But if lending you my scythe will cut down the number of angels flitting about this backwater planet, then by all means, be my guest. It only means less interruptions for me when I'm galaxies away trying to monitor a plague." With a roll of his wrist, he was suddenly holding his scythe, which he presented to her, handle out.

"Just remember, the pointy end goes into your imperious brother."

"Of course." She closed her hand around the hilt, holding eye contact without flinching. Azrael turned the blade over in her hands consideringly. Once, she'd had her own scythe. It's handle had been bone white, the blade silver-white, long, and graceful. It had been ripped out of her hands by the same brother she planned to kill.

"Thank you, truely. I promise not to summon you for as long as I possibly can, for your sake and mine." With a wave of her hand, she tucked the scythe away. "Good luck with your plague, Death. I'll take care of our angel problem."

"See that you do." Death replied. "I would hate to hear that I would have to come in and clean up your mess, again." If he had to spend much more time dealing with Earth's problems, he'd find a way to get rid of the whole planet. Perhaps he'd sent another meteor their way. That would be fitting, crushing them all under a giant mass of ice, rock, and minerals. "Oh, now, don't wish me too much luck, or I'll be obliged to let you see the plague first hand." And with that having been said, he picked up the popcorn and walked out of the room, disappearing once he was out of view.

Azrael glared at the empty space the a horseman had left. "I have to put down the names of every soul you take" she muttered, "I am seeing the plague." Sighing, she stood, checked to make certain that the scythe was secure, then moved herself back to Dean and Sam's motel room. "We'll now, that went better than I was expecting." She drew the scythe with a flourish and placed it on the slightly battered desk.

Sam spun around, eyes going wide. "Holy- oh. Good, you got it. Thank you." Azrael rolled her eyes. "Good to see from gratitude from one of you. Now, Dean, I do believe you mentioned something about making a plan? Do you have any brilliant ideas tucked up under one of your shirts?"

Dean rolled his eyes at her back, "I've got a plan, not sure if it's brilliant. So we've got Sam here, nice, reasonable Sam. Everyone up above knows how much Sam loves to talk things over." He looked at his brother and had only the smallest of apologies in his eyes. "We have Sam leave without a hex bag, and have you hide with that scythe... and preferably some angel trap so he doesn't end up killing my baby brother. How's that sound?"

"And then I jump in guns-" she looked down at the table, "or rather, scythe swinging, and hope I get there fast enough. Meanwhile, you will be ready to collect Sammy dearest." Azrael looked up. "I'm not sure how much Lucifer will like you using Sam as bait, but it's him or no one, really. And... Somehow I don't think Michael will actually kill him. Not right off..."

Fear coiled in the pit of Sam's stomach and dug its claws in. "What do you mean, not right off? Michael doesn't seem like the type to torture someone, not really... Not unless there's nothing else he can do."

"I don't think he wants to torture you either, Sam. I have no... Well, that's not strictly true, but it's nothing you need to worry yourself about. We kill my brother and" she snapped her fingers "problem solved."

Sam was not convinced. His brain was trying to come up with something Michael might do other than just kill him and failing miserably. There was nothing the archangel would want from his aside from revenge. He shook his head and if that could rid him of his suspicions. Because what he was thinking... It was impossible.

Dean looked between Sam and Azrael, not liking how the conversation was going. "For arguments sake, let's say that everything goes wrong. What would Michael do if he was able to grab Sam? What are we talking about here? Would he throw Sam back into the pit or something?" He wasn't sure just what they were talking about, but he knew that he wasn't liking the vibes that the other two were putting out.

"Michael is a traditionalist. He wants the apocalypse, he wants the prize fight. He wants Sam to be Lucifer's vessel again and for you to be his. So he won't kill Sam. Actually, I think he might be reasonably safe as long as Michael still thinks my baby brother is going to wear him. But you." She shrugged, smiling humorlessly. "Dean darling, he wants in. Badly. And I don't think he's taking no for an answer this time around."

Dean stared at Azrael with disbelief, "You're telling me that you have this bastard a vessel, knowing he wasn't going to be content in it, and now he's way more deadly? What was the point of that then?" He asked, anger more by how pointless putting their lives into danger was becoming. "And he can't get inside e without my consent, so I don't see the prob..." His gaze wandered over to Sam and he remembered all the times that Zachariah had tried to force his hand the first time around.******  
**

Sam had died briefly, lungs simply removed from his body. If he'd been able to say no in the face of that, why couldn't he now?

"So we lure him in with Sammy, then I step out to really distract him and you stab him in the back. Good enough game plan?"

"Yes, it is." She sighed. "And Dean, let me make something clear. This, me stabbing him in the back, is only possible because I gave him a vessel. Of course, I could have just stabbed you, but I thought you'd appreciate keeping your lungs intact."

Sam, meanwhile, was looking at his brother in concern. He knew what Dean was thinking about. His chest burned at the memory and he grimaced. Dean wouldn't say Yes, he knew. And even if Michael killed him trying to make Dean give his consent, they had Azrael more or less on their side. It wasn't a good situation by far, but it could have been so much worse.

* * *

**A/N: oh god I feel so bad... Okay. Basically, I got sick so there was no writing or posting until I felt better. **

**the worst part is, I'm going into a huge test season, so there's going to be yet another wait. I wish there was something I could do, but there isn't. Sorry.**


	12. Interim: Azrael

Interim: Azrael

_"DON'T THINK OF IT AS DYING, said Death, JUST THINK OF IT AS LEAVING EARLY TO AVOID THE RUSH." - Death, Good Omens, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchet_

* * *

Looking back, Azrael decided, the girl had not been worth it. There was not a woman on that little planet worth this. But the damage had been done.

Azrael knelt on the golden floor in front of the throne, head bowed, wings spread out on the ground behind her. Her brothers and sisters stood and flew around the cavernous room. Michael and their Father stood before her. Her younger brother held a sword in his hands and, judging by the look on his face, he was more than willing to use it. She would not- could not- look at her father.

"Azrael."

She shuddered down to the ends of her thousands of wings, the eyes that made up her entire body opening and closing rapidly.

"You know your crimes?"

She did. She had known mortal women, shared the secrets of heaven with then, and she had created monsters; giants, Nephilim, the offspring of humans and angels. It was the last two offenses that had earned her the place she held now.

"With you, my child, I face a very unique problem." He continued. "I cannot take away your Grace for fear that one of the Adversary will gain control of the books. Likewise, I cannot cast you into the Pit."

Michael shifted, all three sets of wings flexing.

"And so," He sounded so painfully sad that tears seeped from the eyes of all the watching angels, "Azrael, you are excommunicated from Heaven."

She watched in horror as her wings, formerly bright and gleaming, turned dark. The others recoiled from her and she found herself calling out to them desperately. They would not hear her. Her sister Annael turned away, covering the eyes of the young cherub she held in her arms. Gabriel stood toward the back of the room, looking at anything but her. Balthazar watched in horrified fascination.

Then Michael stepped toward her and Azrael stumbled back, tripping over her wings and falling to lie flat on the floor. Her brother pulled her hands away from her chest and pried her scythe from her grip.

"Brother, please."

Michael turned the blade and struck her hard across the face with the hilt of the scythe.

Azrael threw herself to her feet, rage boiling through her veins. The new emotion was staggering in its strength, leaving her gasping. "How many more of us will Fall?" she shouted.

Michael struck her again and she stumbled back.

"First Lucifer, Beelzebub, Samael... and now me. Which of us will these humans claim next, I wonder. You, Balthazar?" she sneered at the young angel, "Annael? Or maybe little Castiel? Perhaps even you, Michael."

This time, he hit her with the blade of the scythe, its razor edge carving deep into her Grace.

Gabriel flew forward, reaching out to set a hand on their brother's shoulder. "Michael, enough. Just let her leave. No more fighting."  
Michael shook his hand off, raising the blade again.

Azrael stared up at her brother from her knees, a slowing stream of Grace trickling through the fingers pressed to the rapidly healing gash. "I only did as out father asked. After all, he wanted us to love them."

He hauled her back to her feet, hand tight around her neck. "You speak blasphemy."

"I speak the truth, brother." Azrael replied.

At a gesture from Michael, the gates flew wide open. He half-dragged Azrael through them and up to the edge of Heaven. "You are no sister of mine. You lost the right to call me brother when you Fell."

"I am still your Father's daughter." She replied, knocking away his hand. "You will not rid yourself of me as easily as you did Lucifer."

His wings flared, mantling like those of a bird of prey. "Very well. Then I will do you the courtesy of allowing you to leave under your own power."  
Azrael nodded, stepping away from her brother and closer to the edge. Then she turned her back on the empty space, took one last look at her home, and let herself Fall backwards over the edge.

* * *

That night, the Angel of Death walked the streets of the humans' city. The people closed their shutters and bared their doors. They knelt before the altars of the Christian God and their Pagan Gods alike. None of their prayers affected the angel.

Azrael made one stop to collect her vessel before slipping soundlessly back into the streets. This time, quiet sighs accompanied her journey past the dark houses. When she left, only one. the woman responsible for her Fall, remained alive.

As the centuries passed, Azrael focused her energies on minding the Books of Life and Death. It was four hundred years before she went out into the world again. Her rage had cooled and her desire for justice- or vengeance- had abated.

Shortly after, she began to travel, following rumors of another Fallen archangel. She thought that maybe they could make each other's exiles more bearable. Try as she might, Azrael could not find her brother. Likewise, she did not know when Balthazar Fell. So she turned to the mortals for companionship and entertainment, going back to her old ways all too easily now that there could be no consequence from Heaven or her Father for her actions.

When the apocalypse started, she hid herself again and waited, ready to go to whichever of her brothers won the battle in hopes that he would not take advantage of the fact that she would be able to die. But neither did and when Azrael emerged, she owed her continued immortality, no, her life to a pair of mortal brothers. She settled her debt to them, protecting the younger from Michael's continued attacks and from the Wild Hunt before leaving.

Then her brother had found her. For the first time in six thousand years, she came face to face with one of the Host. He threatened her, insulted her, and gave her orders that he had no right to give. So when the brothers called on her again, despite her instructing them not to and despite her rekindled rage, she agreed to help them.

Now, she sat quietly, smiling at Death's scythe balanced across her palms. The whole situation lacked the poetic justice that it would have had if it were her blade she planned to put in Michael's back, but it was more than good enough her her. After all, if everything went according to plan, her younger brother would be dead.

It could not come soon enough.

* * *

**A/N: Okay. I just felt really bad, per usual, about the wait. **

**SO**

**I wrote this. It was all me and it is really just filler and backstory. But it's something to read. And I have to hope that you all like Azrael as much as I do. Anyway, thank you for your patience. I apologize for the length of the update and I sincerly hope that my lovely writing partner will reply soon so I can give you the next chapter. Thanks again!**


	13. Chapter 12 Part 1: Brothers

**A.N: the only thing I own is Azrael. **

_**Push**_

* * *

Azrael had stopped caring a long time ago. It only logical, after all. Angels were not made to care, especially not her. Ten-thousand years of ferrying souls to the afterlife had stripped her of whatever compassion she had been created with. Still, her job, she refused to call it her duty even though that was what it was, could still hurt her. Taking them, the souls, the humans, to Perdition was the easy part. Eventually, she had learned to take a sick form of delight from their pleas. Sometimes, she would linger a moment to watch the first flames lick over their stained surface.

It was taking them to Paradise that hurt- that used to hurt her. To see a human, a weak, sniveling human granted entry to her home... Or what had been her home. She had been cast out six thousand years ago and she could never go back.

Her pride stopped her from going to her younger brother in the Pit, and she hated the humans too much to mingle with them. They had been the cause of her Fall; tempting her to reveal secrets they had no right to know. Now, when she came to collect them, she offered no words of comfort. She rarely spoke to her the soul temporarily in her charge except to mock them. The living humans especially were not worth her time and so she stayed away. Azrael did neither overt harm, nor offered aid, even when she received a tentative prayer from the sister of a dying man. She remained separate, only doing her job out of a lingering sense of loyalty to the family she had lost.

And then she saw Charlie.

The girl was really perfectly normal by human standards. And to Azrael, who was not and had never been anything even approaching human, she should have been insignificant. In the eyes of one who had been alive since the sun first lit the tiny planet the humans walked on, she should have been a child even until two days before she died of old age. She wasn't.

Charlie was brilliant, able to solve any puzzle set in front of her faster than she had a right to. Her tastes were eccentric. Often, Azrael would find her dancing- if her wild jumping could be called dancing- around her small apartment to beat of music in languages the red haired human could not understand. Posters for movies about fantastic creatures and far-off planets covered the walls of her home, many scribbled on or signed by various people Azrael could only assume were important. While she spoke no other Earth languages, Charlie seemed to have taught herself phrases in the languages of her favorite books and would often insult her co-workers in Sindarin or Klingon. She had a sharp wit, a sharper tongue, and used both with little or no restraint.

By the time Charlie had reached adulthood, Azrael had, against her better judgment, grown fond of the human. It was all she would admit to herself for the time being. Eventually, she came to terms with the strange attachment she felt toward the red haired woman.

Charlie had first caught her interest when she was very young. When the girl was five, she had run out into the road in pursuit of a stray ball. It was the story every mother warned their child about. Charlie was struck by an oncoming car, but by some miracle, she did not die. Instead, she was driven to the hospital and kept there, unconscious, while they tried to heal her. Despite their best efforts, the child grew weaker and weaker. The beat of her young heart slowed and stuttered before stopping altogether.

Thousands of miles away, Azrael felt a sharp tug on her Grace. Without knowing what had caused it, or what she was doing, she pushed back, hard. In the hospital, machines screamed, the young girl choked, coughed, and then opened her eyes.

When Azrael had gone to find the source of the strange tug, she found herself looking down at a child with red, braided pigtails, and a well-loved copy of the Hobbit clutched in both hands.

The archangel watched the mortal girl grow up from far away. She saw her triumphs, her sadness, and her anger. The first time Charlie hacked into her cousin's email account after he had stolen her book, Azrael almost smiled. The first time she was stood up, left standing in front of the movie theater by a girl from her math class, she found herself standing to fly down and comfort Charlie. And then, when her missing date had ridiculed her in school, Azrael had given her an especially unpleasant case of mononucleosis. It may not have been much, but it was more interest than she had shown in millennia.

Charlie got a job working in the I.T. department of major company and Azrael was happy for her. At least until someone broke into the building where she worked and Charlie was thrown into a wall. Somewhere in the commotion of fighting and the attackers fleeing, Azrael managed to lose track of her. She heard a sickening crunch as bone broke and then Charlie was sprawled out unconscious on the tiles, right arm bent at an unnatural angle, but seemingly otherwise unharmed.

Then Azrael noticed the pool of blood growing under Charlie's head.

Time stopped.

Charlie, or rather Charlie's soul, sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. "Whoa... must have blacked out for a second there."

The angel could do nothing but stare at the mortal she had been watching over from childhood as her soul climbed shakily to her feet.

Then Charlie looked down.

Azrael braced herself, ready for screaming, or crying, for her to look up and stare at her with liquid brown eyes and ask _why me_? She readied herself to face the same things she relished from every other human soul she had collected.

"Oh..."

Azrael opened her eyes. "Oh?"

"What am I supposed to say?" Charlie asked.

The Archangel did not respond. Horrified, she stared at the black brand on the red haired woman's soul.

"No." She breathed, taking a step back. "No, that's not possible. You've done nothing..."

"What are you talking about?"

Azrael swallowed hard. This, at the very least, had never bothered her before. But now... the mere idea of telling Charlie what she had seen, what she knew sent pangs running through her Grace. In that moment, she would have Fallen again just to save the woman in front of her.

"Charlie, I'm sorry. You're dead-"

"I figured that part out for myself."

Azrael barked a laugh. "I wasn't finished. You're dead... and... I don't know why... but you've been marked for Hell."

Charlie froze, hands curled into tight fists. "What?"

"I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do.

"It isn't because I like girls, is it?"

"No!" Azrael replied immediately. "No, not at all. You humans made that up on your own. No... I don't know what you did to earn Hell."

Charlie sighed and looked down. "I do."

Azrael shook her head. "No, that's not possible, I've been watching over you."

"Every second?"

"Well..."

The answer was no. Azrael had lost track of Charlie for about a month two years previously thanks to a number of natural disasters that had demanded her attention.

"Charlie... maybe if you tell me what you did, I can absolve you."

"How?" She asked, hope sparking to life behind her eyes.

"I'm an angel. My name is Azrael."

That got a response closer to the one she had been expecting. Charlie's eyes went wide and her mouth fell open in a perfect "o".

"You're...?"

"Yes, I am. I can help you... _if_ you tell me what you did to earn yourself a place in the Pit."

Charlie looked down at her body, crumpled and unmoving on the floor. "I... I killed someone. It was an accident, but... And then I ran, changed my name..."

Azrael nodded. She had noticed the change, but accepted it, deciding the Charlie could be called whatever she wished.

"I regret it, I really do. I never meant to- it was an accident." She was becoming frantic now, tears welling up in her eyes and spilling in clear tracks down her cheeks.

The archangel looked away, pressing her lips into a thin line. "I... can't change where you are going. I'm sorry."

She had been a fool. Her reasoning was that Charlie was good, honest, kind. True, she had many of the failings of humans, but she was _good_.

Azrael started pacing, hands clasped together in front of her. Then, for the first time in six thousand years, she prayed.

_"Father, what do I do? She... I cannot let her burn. You have pardoned humans before, spare her. For your daughter, spare her... Please."_

She was met with nothing but hollow, echoing silence.

Azrael was not surprised. She had never expected an answer. After all, what right could a Fallen angel have to ask for a human to be redeemed?

Then, a horrible, wavering howl split the air.

"What was that?!" Charlie jumped, staring around the room. "Azrael, what... what made that noise?"

"A Hellhound." She replied, voice barely louder than a whisper. "Charlie you have to run. If that thing catches you, it will drag you back to its master."

"Can't you do something?!" Charlie screamed. "I can't outrun a dog, not one as big as that thing sounds."

_Do something_.

Charlie made it sound so easy, like turning on a light or pushing a ball down a hill.

Azrael stopped pacing.

A push...

Memory rushed back, of a hum in the back of her mind, a sharp tug on her Grace, and then pushing hard and fast until it went away... and finding Charlie on the other end of the pull.

Azrael had saved her before. She could do it again now, she had to.

She crossed the room in a few short strides and pushed both hands through the center of Charlie's chest. The woman screamed in pain, brilliant light flashing over her skin, turning her eyes from chocolate brown, to burning gold. Azrael ignored her. Slowly, she bore down on the human soul, knowing that if she worked too quickly, she would crush it and Charlie would cease to exist.

If the Hellhound arrived before she finished, that was what she would have to do.

Carefully, she let a ribbon of her Grace free. It cocooned Charlie's soul, strengthening her and protecting her. Azrael's wings, now unrestrained, arched up toward the ceiling, filling the room with thousands upon thousands of purple-black feathers. Charlie stared up at her, tears still pouring from her eyes. Thankfully, the canopy of feathers blocked the approaching Hound from her view.

The thing was hideous. Hairless, and the grey-white of rotten meat, it stood seven feet tall at the shoulder. Red-tinged saliva dripped from its mouth, staining the skin of its massive paws. Black teeth the size of kitchen knives protruded from its mouth and each foot had four iron claws. Worst by far were its eyes. They were not red or black. Instead, they were the milky blue-white of a cadaver's gaze. This Hound was old, its skin scarred and its temperament shaped by centuries of training in the Pit.

Azrael stared at it over her shoulder as she finished easing Charlie's soul back into her body. The pool of blood around the woman's head disappeared as though it had never been then, although her arm remained broken. Then she stood, turning the razor-edged feathers of all four-thousand wings on the infernal dog. It snarled at her and lowered its head, bearing every one of its teeth and its rotten, grey gums. The angel stayed where she was, planted firmly between it and its target.

The Hellhound charged and her wings flashed down, filling the room with a sound like the screech of breaking stone and tearing metal. Its head struck the ground with a thump, black blood pouring from its severed neck. The rest of the dog fell a moment later, meat and skin melting away until only blacked bones remained. Then those too disappeared, leaving behind a fine film of ash on the otherwise clean tiles.

Time started again.

This time, when Charlie sat up, her body came with her. She rubbed her forehead with her left hand and pushed her red hair out of her face. Then she looked around.

Concentrating for a moment, Azrael pushed away the part of her Grace she used to keep herself hidden on the physical plane, allowing Charlie to see her. She tipped her head up and kissed her quickly, gently, almost nervously, on the mouth. Then she smiled, whispered an address in a town twenty miles to the north, and disappeared with a sound like pounding wings.

~OoOoO~

Almost three months later, Azrael heard a knock on the door of the hotel room she had checked into for this exact purpose.

Dropping her book, she ran, actually ran, to answer it. When she reached the door itself, however, she could not bring herself to answer it. She simply stood there, staring at the polished wood, hands trembling by her sides.

The knock came again.

This time, Azrael lifted her hand. Slowly, the knob turned, and slower still, the door opened inward.

"Um... Hi."

Azrael smiled.

"I... I wanted to wait for my arm to get better," she gestured at the offending limb, "and then it took me a month to work up the nerve to see if I'd been hallucinating or something... So... does this mean I was really dead?"

Azrael nodded. "I brought you back."

Charlie shifted awkwardly.

Her mouth opened again and she found herself speaking, sharing things she had never meant to. "Twice, actually. That was the second time. The first... when you were little, you were hit by a car. I brought you back then, too."

"Oh."

If Azrael had been human, had been something even close to human, she would have blushed. As it was, she simply looked away for a moment before stepping back and holding out a hand in a wordless invitation.

Charlie smiled and stepped inside. "Why not."

"Why now?" the archangel asked.

"Well... I figured that it was time for a change of scenery, you know? I was moving anyway, so..."

"Stay with me."

It wasn't a question, but it wasn't a command, either. Azrael did not know what to call it, it or the sensation that was slowly permeating her Grace. She simply knew that she did not want Charlie to leave.

"I can't."

The angel flinched as if she had been struck. "I see."

"No, you don't. I'm running because I don't want to get hurt again. So staying with another supernatural creature after... after what happened. I won't be safe."

"I can protect you."

"I have to protect myself." Charlie's voice was gentle and Azrael nodded. "I can still see you, but I can't stay."

She nodded and smiled, going over to the refrigerator. "Would you like a drink, then?"

The action was so painfully, perfectly human and for a moment, Azrael had to wonder what it would be like if she did not have wings and she did not ferry souls to their final resting places. She wondered what it would be like to have to live every day as if it were her last because some stranger and the corner of a marble wall could snatch it away at any moment if not for an angel's intervention.

Charlie left soon after, but she had been stamped onto Azrael's Grace.

And so, the next time she found herself called to escort a soul, an older man who had stayed for too long hoping to settle an impossible score, she walked with him to Paradise with a smile on her face and kind words on her lips. And she remembered a beautiful, red-haired woman with movie posters on her apartment walls and thought that maybe she would be proud to see what her angel had become.


	14. Author's Note: Temporary Hiatus

**Author's Note:** My writing partner has not contacted me whatsoever since May 6th. I'm emailed them (I am chosing not to disclose any personal information) serveral times, but have recieved no response. Since I have absolutely no idea when I'll be hearing from them again, this story is going on temporary hiatus. I'm very, very sorry. Honestly, I'm as upset about it as you are. I'll post the next chapter as soon as I possibly can, but I really don't know when that will be. I do not plan on abandoning this story, so if something goes wrong, i will continue to write it by myself. Of course, this does mean that the writing style may shift slightly, and the likelihood is that the chapters will become shorter. Anyway, I just thought you had a right to know what was going on.

Again, sorry.

thank you for your patience,

Firedance28


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